“Don’t be so bashful,” returned Hebe. “We’re creating quite a sensation and stealing some of the limelight from the bride. ‘La vice appuyé sur la bras de crime,’ ” she whispered, enjoying herself enormously.
“This is a damned awkward mess,” growled Mr. Sullivan, under his breath. “I can’t see a seat, anywhere.”
“Nor I, and they’re nearly upon us. We’ll have to stop here.”
The location selected for the enforced halt was not a happy one for Lady Denby—nor, indeed, for any of the occupants of that pew. In order to prevent confusion and a disarrangement of the procession, Mrs. Barrington and her escort were obliged to disregard the silken cord and squeeze in beside Sir Eric, and thus cut off quite successfully the view of the spectacle from his diminutive and enraged wife.
She accepted their apologies frostily, and made an obvious effort to escape from the offending pair, but the density of the crowd frustrated her design. She found herself impinged upon Mrs. Barrington’s scented shoulder, and absolutely unable to free herself. The colour mounted hotly to her delicate cheeks. Her eyes sparkled dangerously.
“You must come to some of my parties, dear Lady Denby,” Hebe said, sweetly. “You, and Sir Eric . . . just simple affairs, you know, where we can snatch an hour’s relaxation. A little drink . . . a cigarette, a game of cards—er—do you dance?”
“I do not,” said Lady Denby.
“Ah! What a pity!”
“Nor do I smoke.”
“What?”