“One more toast, then, before the bally lights go out!” he exclaimed. “To Paris—and our trip!”
Some one touched Macheson on the arm. He turned sharply round. Deyes was standing there. Tall and immaculately attired, there was something a little ghostly in the pallor of his worn, beardless face, with its many wrinkles and tired eyes.
“Forgive me for interrupting you, my dear fellow,” he said. “We are having our coffee outside, just on the left there. Miss Thorpe-Hatton wants you to stop for a moment on your way out.”
Macheson hesitated perceptibly. A dull flush of colour stained his cheek, fading away almost immediately. He set his teeth hard.
“I shall be very happy,” he said, “to stop for a second.”
Deyes bowed and turned away. The room now was almost in darkness, and the people were streaming out into the foyer. Macheson paid the bill and followed in the wake of the others. Seeing him approach alone, Wilhelmina welcomed him with a smile, and drew her skirts on one side to make room for him to sit down. He glanced doubtfully around. She raised her eyebrows.
“Your friends,” she said, “are in no hurry. They can spare you for a moment.”
There was nothing in her tone to indicate any surprise at finding him there, or in such company. She made a few casual remarks in her somewhat languid fashion, and recalled him to the recollection of Lady Peggy, who was to all appearance flirting desperately with Lord Westerdean. Deyes had strolled across to a neighbouring group, and was talking to a well-known actor. Wilhelmina leaned towards him.
“Has it ever occurred to you,” she asked quietly, “that you left me a little abruptly the other afternoon?”
His eyes blazed into hers. He found it hard to emulate the quiet restraint of her tone and manner. It was a trick which he had never cultivated, never inherited, this playing with the passions in kid gloves, this muzzling and harnessing of the emotions.