For a while they remained at the far end of the room, at the piano—Bill, black and white in his dinner clothes, dreaming over the keys, Mercedes, leaning on the piano, her huge orange feather fan at her lips, singing snatches of Spanish songs from behind its shelter, her dark eyes glowing. It was, I was forced to admit to Mrs. Howells, playing at my table, a pretty picture, softened and romantic in the flicker of fire light which shone over the two and danced on the mahogany case of the Steinway.
Later, they went out: Wright followed them presently, in his momentary freedom as dummy, for "a breath of air and a cigarette."
I made a Grand Slam.
Wright, returning, to take his place, paused to regard the score over my shoulder, and to whisper,
"Is that the girl Bill picked out for me? What does he take me for, a lion-tamer?"
"Hush!" I said, conscious of Mrs. Howells' proximity. But she was criticizing her husband's last play and did not hear us.
It was twelve o'clock before our guests left. Mercedes, in a gorgeous black and orange cloak, seemed reluctant to depart.
"I've had such a wonderful evening!" she told me, "and Billy was so entertaining!"
I had always disliked the schoolgirl manner of talking in exclamations and italics.
Wright, bidding me good-night, remarked, with mock gravity,