“What are we waiting for, Dory?” said Morrison at last. “Aren’t we all here?”
“Only for an old friend of mine. You know him—John Huish,” said the hostess rather maliciously; and then she added to herself, “He’ll keep your eyes off Gracy Lister, my gentleman.”
Morrison screwed up his face a little, laughed in a curious way, uttered the ejaculation “Oh!” and then smiled as the door was opened and a smart soubrette loudly announced “Mr John Huish!” the bearer of that name entering hurriedly, looking flushed and full of apologies, which were at once received and the dinner commenced.
It was intended to be free and easy and full of spirit; but somehow it seemed as if a spirit of discontent had crept in, and from time to time, though there was no open unpleasantly, flashes of annoyance played like the summer lightning which prefaces a storm over the table with its sparkling glass.
Madame Dorinde had a great favour to ask of her admirer, Frank Morrison, and sought to put him in the best of humours; but to her great annoyance she found him preoccupied, for his attention had from the first moment been taken up by Grace Lister, and his eyes were being constantly turned in her direction as, after a time, forgetting past troubles and neglect in the gaiety and excitement of the scene, Madame Dorinde looked brighter and more animated than she had seemed for weeks.
All this annoyed Huish, who was not long in detecting the glances directed by Frank Morrison at the glowing beauty of Grace, and he was the more annoyed because, just before dinner, he had whispered to the giver of the feast:
“Have the cards on the table as soon as you can. You propose.”
“There will be no cards to-night, my friend, so you need not expect to win any money,” the hostess had replied; and the young man had bitten his lip, and sat thinking how he could turn the little party to his own account.
“Why, I say, Huish,” Morrison cried gaily, a little later on, “what a canting humbug you are! I never thought to meet you at a party like this;” and he smiled significantly. “We always thought you were a kind of saint.”
“I am—sometimes.”