Something dropped with a small clatter into Brassid’s plate. The lady on his left flung her lorgnon to her eyes. Miss Carat jammed her pepper-box to her ear. Some one laughed, then checked it.
An old locket, in the fashion of a heart, lay in Brassid’s plate. A bit of ribbon gave evidence of some severed attachment. Brassid was hopelessly fitting back to its place a flake of blue enamel.
He tried to discourage the interest in his keepsake by covering it with his napkin. Then he looked up. The vacant seat was occupied, and the lady was trying to smother her laughter.
Brassid got red and crunched the napkin in a way which said plainly, “So it was you who laughed!”
She did it again.
He restored the piece of napery with a brave nonchalance, and took up the locket.
The lady’s eyes retorted as plainly as her lips could have done, “Too late!”
He remembered precisely how they did it,—out of the tops of their firm white lids,—with a movement which was personal, a fascination which was irresistible. He was to read other speeches of these eyes, often repeated. But he was to read this one only once more.
Well, Brassid broke his guard and laughed with her.
“It is no laughing matter,” said the lady with the lorgnon, fixing the lady who had laughed with its stare.