"We'll have you out of this in a jiffy," he said cheerfully. "It's the confounded stifling air of these places! It's enough to make a grampus faint! Lady Dinsmore, will you look after Doris?"
"No! No!" the girl exclaimed. Her face was white and strained and fear darkened her eyes. In her distress she had risen, and stood, clasping tightly her father's arm.
"We'll all go together! Please, dear!" Her voice and eyes pleaded. She seemed trying to convey a hidden meaning, a secret urgency.
"Nonsense!" Grayson, still pallid and frowning, leaned heavily upon Van Ingen's shoulder. Tiny beads of perspiration stood out upon his temples but his voice was stronger.
"Don't make a scene, my girl." He nodded toward the stalls, where already curious lorgnettes were beginning to be levelled at their box.
"Sit down!"
Doris obeyed mutely, her mobile lips quivering as she sought to suppress her emotion. She was conscious of a shiver which seemed to spread from her heart throughout her limbs. The oppression of a nameless fear took possession of her; it weighed her down. She sat very still, gripping her fan.
"I'll be around fit as ever in the morning. 'Night, Lady Dinsmore. Take care of my girl." Grayson spoke jerkily with a strong effort.
Lady Patricia Dinsmore regarded him coldly. She disliked the man cordially, and made no bones of it. In her heart she had never forgiven him for wedding her foolish younger sister, the family beauty, who had died at Doris' birth far away from her kith and kin in the desolate wilds of New York.
"Good-night, Gerald," she said drily. "Try to get a little sleep." She turned to the younger man. "Put him to bed, Cord, and cut all the wires around the Savoy, so he won't call up those wretched brokers. I think he's trying to gobble the whole English market."