The crash of glass had startled Gallatin, who looked up into Worthington’s face for a possible meaning of the incident, for it was the clumsiest accident that could befall a sober man. But Bibby, his lighted match suspended in mid-air, returned his gaze with one quite calm and unwavering. Gallatin understood, and a dark flush rose under his skin. He was about to speak when Bibby broke in.
“Phil, I’m probably the most awkward person in the world,” he said evenly. “The only thing about me that’s ever in the right place is my heart. Understand?”
If Gallatin had thought of replying, the words were unuttered, for he lowered his head and only muttered a word or two which could not be heard.
Bibby blew the strands of his tousled wig from his eyes and carefully brushed the liquor from his sleeve with his lace handkerchief.
“Sad thing, that,” he said gravely, “vintage, too.”
“Lucky there’s more of it,” said Savage, taking up the bottle. “Hand me one of those glasses on the side table there, Bibby.”
Worthington turned slowly away, looked down at Gallatin and a glance passed between the two men. As Bibby moved off Gallatin took out his case and hastily lit a cigarette.
“Never mind, Bibby,” he found himself saying. “No, thanks, Egerton, I’m—er—on the wagon.” He lit his cigarette, rose, opened the door, and looked out into the winter night, drinking in deep draughts of the keen air. His evil moment had passed.
“Howling success, this party, Egerton,” somebody was saying. “Listen to those infants on the veranda.”
“Hello,” cried Bibby. “It’s Bobby Shafto, by George. I’ll have to go in and make my bow. Come along, Phil. They’ll be calling for you presently. What the devil are you anyway?”