She imagined that the excuse I had made was invalid; for if, as Cassavetti inferred, his—and my—mysterious visitor had been off the premises before seven o’clock, I ought still to have been able to keep my appointment with her. Well, I would have to undeceive her later!
“Don’t look so solemn, Maurice,” Mary said, as I seated myself beside her. “Tell me all about everything, right now.”
I repeated what I had already told Cassavetti.
“Well, I call that real interesting!” she declared. “If you’d left that poor old creature on the stairs, you’d never have forgiven yourself, Maurice. It sounds like a piece out of a story, doesn’t it, Jim?”
“You’re right, my dear! A fairy story,” chuckled Jim, facetiously. “You think so, anyhow, eh, Anne?”
Thus directly appealed to, she had to turn to him, and I heard him explaining his question, which she affected not to understand; heard also her answer, given with icy sweetness, and without even a glance in my direction.
“Oh, no, I am sure Mr. Wynn is not capable of inventing such an excuse.”
Thereupon she resumed her conversation with Cassavetti. They were speaking in French, and appeared to be getting on astonishingly well together.
That dinner seemed interminable, though I dare say every other person in the room except my unlucky self—and perhaps Mary, who is the most sympathetic little soul in the world—enjoyed it immensely.