“I see!” said Page, still grinning.
“I suppose I really ought to go up and see how the poor girl’s getting on,” continued Serena.
“Oh, no!” he said suavely. “Don’t go! Wait a bit, and perhaps she’ll come back.”
There was another silence.
“We don’t want to sit here!” cried Betty Anson nervously, pushing back her chair. “Let’s go!”
“I like to sit here,” said Page. He poured himself another whisky, and lit a cigarette. “I think I’ll have a demi-tasse and a sandwich. You people must keep me company. Don’t go, Betty!”
She settled back again. She was sorry for Serena, but it would never do to offend Jesse.
“If there’s any serious trouble,” she thought, “poor Serena’ll be done for!”
The ambitious Mrs. Anson couldn’t afford to take up the cause of people who were done for. She glanced covertly across the table. Her husband sat with his eyes fixed on the cloth, his distinguished gray head bent. Levering was grave, but the shadow of a smile hovered about his lips. Jinky, sitting next him—what was the matter with Jinky?
“How queer she looks!” thought Mrs. Anson.