“When shall we have another party . . . of our own?”
“I don’t know just now. Perhaps next week.”
By the furious colour that surged into Marjorie’s cheeks, Azalea knew that Sullivan had caressed her under cover of the table.
“It’s always at this point that the liveliest dinner begins to grow dull,” cried Hebe Barrington. “Have you ever noticed it, Mrs. Pratt? No? Dear me, what partners you must have had! I believe there are super-women with whom men are never tiresome. How do you account for that, Doctor?” Then, without waiting for an answer, she went on, “I have a theory of my own regarding this slump in brilliancy and wit. It is simply a matter of being too well fed. The animal wants to stretch and sleep. What do you think?” she smiled at Augustus, who was so disturbed by this sudden attention that he interfered with Cr’ymer’s unsteady serving of the wine and between them they managed to upset the decanter.
“Oh, Mrs. Pratt!” Hebe turned in mock terror to her hostess. “I throw myself upon your protection. He is going to blame me! I’m sorry, but I’m innocent. Uneasy looks the face that wears a frown, Mr. Pratt! If you will only forgive me, I’ll promise not to speak to you again all evening.”
“Wish you’d get the missus to go that far,” retorted Augustus, avoiding his wife’s eye.
There was a laugh in which Mrs. Pratt did not join. Conversation dropped to a murmur between couples. Hebe repeated her question to Dilling and received from him a grudging affirmative. A ponderous hummock of doughy consistency was tasted and thrust aside, and the hostess rose from the table.
“Poor Augustus!” whispered Hebe, as she sank down beside Azalea in the drawing-room. “Won’t hell-fire be his when we’ve gone?”
“Perhaps if we’re especially nice to her, she will have forgotten by then.”
“Not a chance, my dear! I don’t know the individual, but I know the type. Death will be his only escape . . . But, tell me, just who are you?”