Without, her motor waited. She told the groom to have it follow her. The air tempted, though the sky was dirty. She thought of the California glare, the eager glitter of New York. She wondered would they go back there. Perhaps, she told herself, we shall at last see Bora-Bora.
Her walk took her through the arcades of the rue de Rivoli to the fountains of the Place de la Concorde. From there she was about to enter the Champs Elysées when she became conscious of being accosted.
“Chère madame,” some one was saying, “I precipitate myself to renew the expression of my homage.”
D’Arcy, hat in hand, was before her. At once, with a view to what the French agreeably describe as the placing of landmarks—pour poser des jalons—he asked to be permitted to accompany her.
Leilah smiled.
“Not for the world!”
She motioned at the motor. Then, with that graciousness which is natural to the mondaine, with perhaps the desire also to attenuate whatever there were of brusqueness in her reply, she added, as she got in the car:
“I shall be at the Opéra with the Helley-Quetgens to-night. Could you not look in?”
D’Arcy, habituated to the abruptest victories, accustomed to inflame, with but a glance, by the mere exhibition of his Olympian good looks, and, therefore, indifferent when not bored by the celerity of his successes, but piqued by the tranquil air with which this woman had always regarded him, thanked her, assured her that he would not fail to be there, and replaced his hat.