Macheson laughed as he led her back to their table.
“You are right,” he declared. “Pleasure is a subtle thing. It does not do to analyse.”
Macheson filled her glass.
“Sit down,” he said, “and tell us about the people. It is early yet, I suppose?”
She nodded.
“Yes,” she answered. “There are many who come every night who have not yet arrived.”
Ella leaned forward to ask a question, and mademoiselle nodded. Yes! that was Bolero at the small table opposite. She sat with three men, one of whom was busy sketching on the back of the menu card. Bolero, with her wonderful string of pearls, smileless, stolid, with the boredom in her face of the woman who sees no more worlds to conquer. Monsieur with the ruffled hair and black eyes? Yes! a Russian certainly. Mademoiselle, with a smile which belied her words, was not sure of his name, but François spoke always of His Highness! The gentleman with the smooth-shaven face, who read a newspaper and supped alone? Mademoiselle looked around. She hesitated. After all, monsieur and his friends were only casual visitors. It was not for them to repeat it, but the gentleman was a detective—one of the most famous. He had watched for some one for many nights. In the end it would happen. Ah! Some one was asking for a cake-walk? Mademoiselle finished her wine hastily and sprang up. She will return? But certainly, if monsieur pleases!
The band struck up something American. Mademoiselle danced up and down the little space between the tables. Ella laid her hand upon Macheson’s shoulder.
“Why do you want to talk to every one?” she whispered. “I think you forget sometimes that you are not alone.”
Macheson laughed impatiently.