Everet and Dalzel are talking together. Helen looks a little bewildered, and Mrs. Grayson looks a little amused, and a good deal contemptuous—or shocked, perhaps. She nods towards the conservatory, and at the moment a man and woman come from the shadow of a palm, towards the quartette, engrossed in conversation—at least, Bogart is. Mrs. Stevens is engrossed in looking charming. Gladys continues in little spasmodic asides:
"Every one in the room—" they are nearer, and she lowers her voice, "is talking about it. It is disgraceful."
"What?"
"Why, the very apparent affaire between them."
Helen stares—then looks at Mrs. Stevens. Gladys says under her breath, between her teeth:
"Don't stare at her in that way, you goose. She will come over here in a minute, and ask if the enamel on her neck is chipping."
Helen lowers her eyes. Gladys continues:
"Things are so very apparent, you know."
Mrs. Stevens is coming leisurely toward them. "There is a story of a little dinner." Mrs. Stevens is here. Gladys bows with her accustomed hauteur, with which she meets every one but the initiated, and without the suspicion of discourtesy in her manner, turns away on Dalzel's arm.
Mrs. Stevens begins to talk volubly to Helen and Everet. Helen is disconcerted. She has none of the studied, courteous rudeness that is her friend's stock-in-trade, with which to carry off a thing of this kind gracefully. She replies a little helplessly to Mrs. Stevens, and moves away as quickly as she can.