“Excuse me,” Silverstairs with affected meekness threw out. “And thanks for the lecture.”
Tempest nodded. “You’re entirely welcome.”
He turned to Violet. She was looking at Leilah who was looking at Barouffski. The latter was looking at the fingers of his right hand against which his thumb passed and repassed mechanically. But now, aroused from his reflections by the entire cessation of talk, he glanced about him, summoned a waiter, settled the score. The Bohemians who momentarily had been silent, abruptly striped the air with spangles from their bows.
Violet and Leilah stood up, resumed their wraps, passed on. The men, buttoning their coats, putting their gloves on, followed.
At the door were the eager grooms. As one of them touched his hat to Leilah, Violet turned to her.
“My dear, I cannot thank you for a very pleasant evening. But I will look in on you to-morrow. That bone isn’t picked and what’s more, now I’ve got sauce for it.”
With Silverstairs and Tempest at her heels, she went to her brougham. Leilah entered the motor.
At the door of the latter Barouffski stood. He raised his hat. Leilah looked at him. She had had, she thought, her last glimpse of the world and this was her last glimpse of him. The sight was so repugnant that she almost sickened and the nausea which she felt, her face expressed.
Barouffski tried to smile but the unconcealed candour of her abhorrence made his lips twitch. Now, though, the motor was starting. As it whirred away, he drew his coat closely about him, turned up the collar and stuck his hands deep in the pockets. There had come to him that odd sensation which homely fancy attributes to someone walking on your grave.