He followed her towards the lift. The vestibule was full of people, laughing and talking, awaiting the coming of the favourite. But as the girl in her blue cloak went through, a sudden hush fell. Women lifted glasses to look at her, and men turned to watch.
Saltash sauntered behind her in his regal way, looking neither to right nor left, yet fully aware of all he passed. No one accosted him. There were times when even those who knew him well would have hesitated to do so. He could surround himself with an atmosphere so suavely impersonal as to be quite impenetrable to all.
It surrounded him now. He walked like a king through a crowd of courtiers, and the buzz of talk did not spring up again till he was out of sight.
"So you do not want to see le premiere danseuse du siècle!" he commented, as he entered the sitting-room of their suite behind Toby.
She turned, blue eyes wide with protest in her white face. "Do you wish me to see her, my lord? That—woman!"
He frowned upon her suddenly. "Call me Charles! Do you hear? We will play this game according to rule—or not at all."
"You are angry," Toby said, and turned still whiter.
He came to her, thrust a quick arm about her. "I am not angry, mignonne, at least not with you. But you must take your proper place. I can't keep you in hiding here. Those gaping fools downstairs—they have got to understand. You are not my latest whim, but a permanent institution. You are—my wife."
She shivered in his hold, but she clung to him. "I don't feel like—a permanent institution," she told him rather piteously. "And when you are angry—"
"I am not angry," said Saltash, and tweaked her ear as though she had been a boy. "But—whether you feel like it or not—you are my wife, and you have got to play the part. C'est entendu, n'est-ce-pas?"