“He said he would come down with the Gunnings,” explained Yvonne, her eyes flickering. “Besides, I always feel as though I were riding in an ambulance when he is in the car. He dissected every bit of music they played to-night. Now, James dear, you know he is quite dreadful.” She said it pleadingly, poutingly.
“I offered to send the car back for him,” said Frederic, speaking for the first time.
Brood drew a long breath. His glance met Lydia's and recognised the mute appeal that lay in her eyes. He smiled faintly, and hope rose in her troubled breast.
“The Gunnings were there,” put in Yvonne, puffing more rapidly than usual at her cigarette. “They came to the box with Mr and Mrs Harbison during the intermission.”
“What spiteful things did Mrs Harbison say about me?” demanded Brood, affecting a certain lightness of manner. “A cigarette, Ranjab. She despises me, I'm sure. Didn't she ask why I was not there to look after my beautiful and much-coveted wife?”
“She said that you interested her more than any man she knew, and, of course, I considered that particularly spiteful. Her husband declared he would rather shoot with you than with any man in the world. He's very tiresome.”
“We've hunted a good bit together,” said Brood.
“Harbison says you are the most deadly shot he's ever seen,” said Frederic, relaxing slightly.
“What was it he said about your wonderful accuracy with a revolver? What was it, Frederic? Hitting a shilling at some dreadful distance—thirty yards, eh?”
“Thirty paces,” said Frederic.