The young man bowed, and, with a curious glance at Ruff, accepted his dismissal. Another partner was simply waved away.
“Please turn round and come back,” Peter Ruff said. “I want to see those two again.”
“But we haven’t found Count von Hern yet,” she protested. “Surely that is more important, is it not? I believe that I saw him dancing just now—there, with the tall girl in yellow.”
“Never mind about him, for the moment,” Ruff answered. “Walk down this corridor with me. Do you mind talking all the time, please? It will sound more natural, and I want to listen.”
The young American and his partner had found a more retired seat now, about three quarters of the way down the pillared vestibule which bordered the ballroom. He was bending over his companion with an air of unmistakable devotion, but it was she who talked. She seemed, indeed, to have a good deal to say to him. The slim white fingers of one hand played all the time with a string of magnificent pearls. Her dark, soft eyes—black as aloes and absolutely un-English—flashed into his. A delightful smile hovered at the corners of her lips. All the time she was talking and he was listening. Lady Mary and her partner passed by unnoticed. At the end of the vestibule they turned and retraced their steps. Peter Ruff was very quiet—he had caught a few of those rapid words. But the woman’s foreign accent had troubled him.
“If only she would speak in her own language!” he muttered.
Lady Mary’s hand suddenly tightened upon his arm.
“Look!” she exclaimed. “That is Count von Hern!”
A tall, fair young man, very exact in his dress, very stiff in his carriage, with a not unpleasant face, was standing talking to Jermyn and his companion. Jermyn, who apparently found the intrusion an annoyance, was listening to the conversation between the two, with a frown upon his face and a general attitude of irritation. As Lady Mary and her escort drew near, the reason for the young American’s annoyance became clearer—his two companions were talking softly, but with great animation, in a foreign language, which it was obvious that he did not understand. Peter Ruff’s elbow pressed against his partner’s arm, and their pace slackened. He ventured, even, to pause for a moment, looking into the ballroom as though in search of some one, and he had by no means the appearance of a man likely to understand Hungarian. Then, to Lady Mary’s surprise, he touched the Count von Hern on the shoulder and addressed him.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, “but I fancy that we accidentally exchanged programmes, a few minutes ago, at the buffet. I have lost mine and picked up one which does not belong to me. As we were standing side by side, it is possibly yours.”