“I have not an idea—unless it was because of this Count Thingumagig.”
Violet Silverstairs furled her fan, looked at him, looked away, looked about the room. At one end her husband, accompanied by de Joyeuse, Tempest, de Fresnoy, and the others, had entered. At the further end the Roumanian dominated. Supported en sourdine by an accompanist, he massed sounds and dispersed them, concentrating fulgurations of notes from which echoing showers fell. Presently, resuming an abandoned measure, he caressed a largo, infinitely sweet, that swooned in the languors of the finale. At once to a murmur of bravos, the applause of gloved hands and a cry of “Bis!” raising violin and bow above his head, he bent double to the duchess, his flowing hair falling like a veil before him.
“He may play again,” said Violet. “I want to talk to you. Let us go into the next room.”
As Verplank rose at her bidding, others who had been seated, rose also. Interrupted conversations were more animatedly resumed. A servant announced additional names. The first salon now was thronged. The second was filled. Verplank and Violet passed on.
Beyond was a gallery. At the entrance stood a woman, her face averted, talking to a man. As the others approached, she turned.
At sight of her and of the man, Violet would have turned also. It was too late.
“Leilah!” Verplank exclaimed.
For a second, in tragic silence, two beings whom love had joined and fate had separated, stood, staring into each other’s eyes.
For a second only. At once the man interposed himself between them.
“Monsieur!” he insolently threw out. “My name is Barouffski.”