“Excuse me,” he began, and something in her eyes as she looked up at him made him doubly nervous, “but perhaps it would be better if you didn’t make quite such a noise.... You see, the other people ...” he added vaguely.
There was absolute silence now. The last echo of the piano had died away, and the select audience waited rather breathlessly for what might happen.
Catherine rose. There was that greenish-brown glint in her eyes that made fierce harmony with her hair. For a moment she looked at him unflinchingly. There was certainly defiance, perhaps contempt in her eyes.
“Who are you?” she said, with quiet insolence.
Somebody tittered.
George Trant looked and felt uncomfortable. For answer he turned slowly on his heel and walked away. It seemed on the whole the most dignified thing to do. Catherine flushed fiercely. Like a tigress she bounded to his side and made him stop.
“For God’s sake, don’t sulk!” she cried wildly. “Wake up and say something! Don’t stand there like a stone sphinx! Wake up!”
With a quick leap she sprang upwards and ran her two hands backwards and forwards through his hair. His hair was long and lank and well plastered. After she had finished with it it stood bolt upright on his head like a donkey fringe. Everyone roared with laughter.
During the progress of this operation the interior door had been opened and a man had entered. In the noise and excitement of the mêlée he was not noticed. He was tall, severe-looking and in evening dress. When the excitement subsided they found him standing a little awkwardly on the edge of the scuffle.
Catherine thought he was at least an underwaiter, come to complain of the noise they were making.