“Not four?” Celati’s level voice was suddenly sharp.
“Not four. There will be represented at this table Great Britain, France, Italy, the United States—and Humanity. The greatest of these, gentlemen, will have no voice.”
“Au bonheur!” commented De Nemours affably. “It, unlike Mrs. Lindsay, might not sing us madrigals.”
O’Hara brought his clenched fist down on the table with a gesture at once despairing and menacing. “Now by the Lord,” he said, his voice oddly shaken, “if this woman——”
The door into the hall opened very quietly, closed more quietly still, and Delilah Lindsay stood facing them, her hand still on the knob.
“I knocked twice,” she said softly. “The woodwork must be very thick.”
O’Hara rose slowly to his feet. Celati and De Nemours had already found theirs.
“Good evening,” he said, “it’s not quite the hour, I believe.” He was fighting an absurd and overwhelming impulse—an impulse to reply with perfect candour, “The woodwork is not thick at all. Were you listening at that door?”
For a moment, hardly longer, Delilah stood quite still. It was long enough to stamp on every mind present an indelible picture of the primrose-yellow head shining out against the dark panels; therefore, long enough for all practical purposes. She released the door-knob, smiling very faintly.
“It is unfortunate for a man to be late,” she replied, “but unpardonable for a woman. We have so much time of our own to waste that we must be very careful not to waste that of others. Bon soir, De Nemours.”