"I will do—whatever you wish," she said again nervously. "You know that."
"Yes, I know that," said Saltash with his quick grimace. "You have my sympathy, Nonette. Now go, ma chère, go!"
She went from his presence like a small hunted animal.
Saltash shrugged his shoulders and sauntered down again to the vestibule. The crowd had grown. They were watching the great entrance-door expectantly for the coming of the celebrated dancer. Saltash called for a drink, and mingled with the throng.
The Italian, Spentoli, came up presently and joined him. "I am hoping," he said, "that you will presently give me the great honour of presenting me to your bride."
Saltash looked at him. Spentoli was one of the very few men for whom he entertained respect. The Italian's work had always held an immense attraction for his artistic soul, and he had never troubled to disguise the fact.
"My wife is young and shy," he said, after a moment. "I will present you—some day, Spentoli, but it may not be yet."
"This is her first visit to Paris?" questioned Spentoli.
"Not her first. But she does not know Paris well." Saltash spoke carelessly. "I am not showing her everything at once. I think that is a mistake."
"That is true," agreed Spentoli. "The freshness of youth is gone all too soon. But she will be superbly beautiful in a few years' time. Will you permit me to congratulate you on the excellence of your choice?"