“You are faint?” he whispered hoarsely.
“Upstairs—air,” she faltered.
They rose to their feet. The sound of Sir Timothy's voice reached them as they ascended the stairs.
“On deck, every one, if you please,” he insisted. “Refreshments are being served there. There are inquisitive people who watch my launch, and it is inadvisable to remain here long.”
People hurried out then as though their one desire was to escape from the scene of the tragedy. Lady Cynthia, still clinging to Francis' arm, led him to the furthermost corner of the launch. There were real tears in her eyes, her breath was coming in little sobs.
“Oh, it was horrible!” she cried. “Horrible! Mr. Ledsam—I can't help it—I never want to speak to Sir Timothy again!”
One final horror arrested for a moment the sound of voices. There was a dull splash in the river. Something had been thrown overboard. The orchestra began to play dance music. Conversation suddenly burst out. Every one was hysterical. A Peer of the Realm, red-eyed and shaking like an aspen leaf, was drinking champagne out of the bottle. Every one seemed to be trying to outvie the other in loud conversation, in outrageous mirth. Lady Isabel, with a glass of champagne in her hand, leaned back towards Francis.
“Well,” she asked, “how are you feeling, Mr. Ledsam?”
“As though I had spent half-an-hour in Hell,” he answered.
She screamed with laughter.