“How long do these things last?” he enquired, under his breath. “Can’t we go home?”
“In a few minutes. Wait until Mrs. Barrington stops singing. The bridge players will probably stay on.”
Dilling made a frank signal to his wife, then turned back to the girl. “Do you mind coming to the house with us?” he asked. “I will see you home. There is something particular I want to say.”
The song ended abruptly, and Azalea raised her eyes to meet those of Hebe Barrington. There was something in their expression that made her flush. And there was the same suggestiveness, the same mockery in her words at parting.
“If Miss Deane will wait until I have redeemed my promise to Mr. Pratt and sung him one more song, we will drop her at the door and save Mr. Dilling the trouble.”
“Cut him out of that pleasure,” amended Barrington, quickly.
“Even pleasures are troublesome, Toddles, dear,” said his wife, “look at me, for an illustration. However, there may be another time . . . You must all come and see me. They say my parties are rather fun. I’m usually at home on Friday evenings, and nearly every Sunday afternoon.”
Azalea did not speak for a moment after Dilling had made his proposition. She dared not trust her voice.
“You can’t be offended?” he asked, bluntly.