“There,” she said, “if you want to see La Guerrero you must hurry. She is coming on now.”
The two young men rose to their feet. One of the girls looked wistfully at Holderness, but nothing was said beyond the ordinary farewells.
“Thank you so much for telling us,” Holderness said. “Come along, Victor. It is La Guerrero.”
Macheson breathed more freely when once they were in the throng. They watched the Spanish dancer with her exquisite movements, sinuous, full of grace. Holderness especially applauded loudly. Afterwards they found seats in the front and remained there for the rest of the performance.
Out in the street they hesitated. Holderness passed his arm through his companion’s.
“Supper!” he declared. “This way! Did you know what a man about town I was, Victor? Ah! but one must learn, and life isn’t all roses and honey. One must learn!”
They threaded their way through the streets, crowded with hansoms, electric broughams, and streams of foot passengers. Holderness led the way to a sombre-looking building, and into a room barely lit save for the rose-shaded lamps upon the tables. Macheson gasped as he entered. Nearly every table was occupied by women in evening dress, women alone—waiting. Holderness glanced around quite unconcernedly as he gave up his coat and hat to a waiter.
“Feeling shy, Victor?” he asked, smiling. “Never mind. We’ll find a table to ourselves all right.”
They sat in a corner. The girls chattered and talked across them—often at them. A Frenchwoman, superbly gowned in white lace, and with a long rope of pearls around her neck, paused as she passed their table. She carried a Pomeranian under her arm and held it out towards them.