"Stay where you are a minute," he said to Prochnow, and slipped away. Ignace stared now at his rival in love just as before he had stared at his rival in art,—yet held in check both by the intimidating splendour of the ceremonial and by his own uncertainty as to the precise significance of the situation.
O'Grady hurried back to Dill. "Daff, Daff!" he cried with wide eyes and with a tremulous finger that pointed back toward the tea-table, "is that the man?"
"What man?"
"The big brute sitting beside her."
"Robin Morrell to a 't,'" said Virgilia. "Or Richard, either."
"Are they trying to make her marry him?" demanded Little O'Grady, his gray-green eyes staring their widest.
"That is the plan, I believe," returned Dill.
"It won't come off!" cried Little O'Grady, and dashed away.
He pushed and trampled his course back to Prochnow. In the library he brushed against Medora Joyce.
"Oh, Dodie," he panted, "they're sacrificin' our little Preciosa to that big brute of a Morrell!"