With superior tact Lady Silverstairs intervened. “Good evening, Count. It never occurred to us that we were interrupting a tête-à-tête.”
She paused. Hostilely the two men were measuring each other. In Verplank’s face there was a threat, in Barouffski’s there was a jeer, in Leilah’s there was an expression of absolute terror. Of the little group Violet alone appeared at ease.
“Leilah,” she added, “don’t forget that you are to have luncheon with me to-morrow. Good night, my dear. Silverstairs and I will be going soon. Good night, Barouffski.”
She smiled, nodded, took Verplank’s arm, took him away. But the arm beneath her hand was shaking and she realised that it shook with rage.
Sympathetically she looked up at him. “I thought they were in the other room and it was just to avoid a thing of this sort that I got you out of it. You won’t do anything, will you?”
Verplank now had got control of himself, his arm no longer shook, and it was the smile of a man of the world, the smile of one to whom nothing is important and much absurd, that he answered:
“Why, yes; it was very civil of this chap to introduce himself. I shall leave a card on him. Hello! Here’s Silverstairs! I wonder if he will introduce himself, too.”
The young earl was advancing, his hand outstretched. “I say! I saw a man marching off with the missis, but I had no idea it was you. Where are you stopping? Will you dine with us Tuesday?”
“Yes, do.” Violet threw in. “Rue François Premier at eight.”
“I shall be very glad to,” Verplank answered. He turned to Silverstairs. “I am at the Ritz. Stop by there to-morrow noon, won’t you, and let me take you somewhere for luncheon?”