She touched the glass with her lips, for a moment held it there, then, offering it to d’Arcy, rather languorously she said:
“Beau sire, will you drink the rest?”
Instantly Violet intervened. “Leilah! Behave yourself!”
“But with delight,” d’Arcy was saying.
From Leilah’s extended hand he took the glass, raised it, drained it, put it down, looked at her.
Barouffski was looking at him. Quietly, without emphasis, he asked:
“Will you drink mine, too?”
Half rising as he spoke, he had taken his own glass in his hand and with a gesture which, even as he made it, he regretted, a gesture incited by vibrations which he was unable to resist, he flung the contents at him.
“Barouffski!” Violet indignantly exclaimed.
She glanced about her. At her elbow an omnibus, a lad undersized but stout, stood gaping. Beyond, the Bohemians were storming. At the adjacent table were demi-reps and South Americans. They had not noticed. At this table, Tempest, his teeth visible, was contemplating his host. Silverstairs, tugging at his moustache, was considering Leilah. The latter was looking—and with what a look!—at Barouffski. But no one spoke. A spell seemed to have settled on all. With the idea of doing or of saying something that would break it, Violet turned to d’Arcy.