“The same old game,” said Logan. “Playing at being wicked. Why can’t they stick to their commercial beastliness? I should be ashamed to bring any woman into this. I am ashamed.” He half rose from his chair.
“Oh! don’t go,” pleaded Oliver, who was entranced with her first sight of what she called a gay life. It was to her like a stage spectacle. “Oh! there’s that Calthrop; I suppose all those odd women with him are models.”
Calthrop was surrounded by admiring students, among them Morrison, sitting prim and astonished and obviously amazed to find herself where she was. Mendel began to tremble, and his heart beat violently, as he stared at her—stared and stared.
She had lied to him then! She had not had to go home! She could strike him down and then come to amuse herself at such a place as this!
Was she with Mitchell? No, Mitchell was not among the satellites.
How strange she looked! a wild violet in a hot-house. He waited for her to glance in his direction, but she seemed to be absorbed in the singer and in the song, and every now and then she smiled, though obviously not at the song—at something that amused her or pleased her in her thoughts. She could smile then and be happy, and all his wild emotions had made no invasion into her life. . . . No; she would not look in his direction. Perhaps she had seen him come in and refused to see him.
Would the dancing never begin? The dancing took place on a slightly raised floor. If he danced there she would have to see him.
He found a warm hand placed on his leg, and turning he saw Jessie Petrie, a model, with whom he had danced at the studios and at the Detmold.
“I thought I was never going to see you again,” she said, “and Mitchell said you had gone mad.”
“Do I look it?” he asked.