“In other words, I am not to propose?” Sir Timothy said slowly.
“You see how decadent I am,” she sighed. “I want to toy with my pleasures. Besides, there's that scamp of a brother of mine coming up to have a drink—I saw him get out of a taxi—and you couldn't get it through in time, not with dignity.”
The rattle of the lift as it stopped was plainly audible. He stooped and kissed her fingers.
“I fear some day,” he murmured, “I shall be a great disappointment to you.”
CHAPTER XXVIII
There was a great deal of discussion, the following morning at the Sheridan Club, during the gossipy half-hour which preceded luncheon, concerning Sir Timothy Brast's forthcoming entertainment. One of the men, Philip Baker, who had been for many years the editor of a famous sporting weekly, had a ticket of invitation which he displayed to an envious little crowd.
“You fellows who get invitations to these parties,” a famous actor declared, “are the most elusive chaps on earth. Half London is dying to know what really goes on there, and yet, if by any chance one comes across a prospective or retrospective guest, he is as dumb about it as though it were some Masonic function. We've got you this time, Baker, though. We'll put you under the inquisition on Friday morning.”
“There won't be any need,” the other replied. “One hears a great deal of rot talked about these affairs, but so far as I know, nothing very much out of the way goes on. There are always one or two pretty stiff fights in the gymnasium, and you get the best variety show and supper in the world.”
“Why is there this aroma of mystery hanging about the affair, then?” some one asked.