Leilah herself had not eaten. But as soon as champagne was served she had drunk of it, she had drunk since and in her manner, in the way she held herself, in the inflection of her voice, there had entered a trace of the excessive which the mondaine avoids. It was this that had deterred Tempest. Moreover she had been laughing and that surprised Violet who, except a little earlier in the rotunda, never, since Leilah reached Paris, had seen her laugh before.
Now, her head drawn back, her eyes half closed, she was gratifying d’Arcy with that look with which a woman can appear not to listen merely but to drink the words, the appearance even, of the man by whom she is addressed. While perhaps flattering to him, it was too marked for good taste. The others noticed it, but, as is usual in such circumstances, they acted as though they had not.
Barouffski conscious of the impression produced, conscious also of the impressions of the afternoon, leaned forward and said in French:
“But, my dear! You eat nothing!”
Silverstairs, tugging at his moustache, laughed inanely and addressing himself to both Leilah and d’Arcy, threw in:
“If this is a private conversation——”
“What nonsense!” Leilah threw back.
“I was about to say,” Silverstairs resumed, “that if it is a private conversation, I’d like to hear it. If it is not, never mind.”
Barouffski, still leaning forward, continued:
“I pray you take a bit of the chaudfroid.”