“Mademoiselle,” Peter whispered.
She held out her hand and laughed into his face.
“No!” she interrupted. “I shall do my duty. Opposite you is Mademoiselle Trezani, the famous singer at Covent Garden. Do I need to tell you that, I wonder? Rudolf Maesterling, the dramatist, stands behind her there in the corner. He is talking to the wonderful Cleo, whom all the world knows. Monsieur Guyer there, he is manager, I believe, of the Alhambra; and talking to him is Marborg, the great pianist. One of the ladies talking to my brother is Esther Braithwaite, whom, of course, you know by sight; she is leading lady, is she not, at the Hilarity? The other is Miss Ransome; they tell me that she is your only really great English actress.”
Peter nodded appreciatively.
“It is all most interesting,” he declared. “Now tell me, please, who is the military person with the stiff figure and sallow complexion, standing by the door? He seems quite alone.”
The girl made a little grimace.
“I suppose I ought to be looking after him,” she admitted, rising reluctantly to her feet. “He is a soldier just back from India—a General Noseworthy, with all sorts of letters after his name. If Mademoiselle Celaire is generous, perhaps we may have a few minutes’ conversation later on,” she added, with a parting smile.
“Say, rather, if Mademoiselle Korust is kind,” De Grost replied, bowing. “It depends upon that only.”
He strolled across the room and rejoined Mademoiselle Celaire a few moments later. They stood apart in a corner.
“I should like my supper,” Peter declared.