"My dear," he said hurriedly, "you must really excuse me. A man like Mr. Angelo Tombs is a personage of importance."
"Yes; but, James——"
She paused, disconcerted. Milbanke had left the table.
For quite a minute she sat silent, her cheeks burning with a sudden sense of mortification and neglect. To a reasoning and experienced mind, the incident would have carried no weight; at most it would have offered grounds for a passing amusement. But with Clodagh the case was different. Circumstances had never demanded the cultivation of her reason, and experience was an asset she was not possessed of. To her sensitive, youthful susceptibilities, the incident could only wear one complexion. Her husband had obviously and wittingly humiliated her in presence of his friend.
She sat with tightened lips, staring unseeingly at the table.
Then suddenly and softly some one crossed the room behind her, and paused beside her chair. Turning with a little start, she saw the pale, clean-cut features and searching dark eyes of Valentine Serracauld.
"Mrs. Milbanke," he said at once in his easy, ingratiating voice. "If you are not doing anything else this evening, may I place my uncle's gondola at your disposal? Both he and I would be considerably honoured if you and your husband——"
Clodagh looked up into his face with a quick glance of pleasure and relief.
"Oh, thank you!" she said. "Thank you so very much! I should love to come, only my husband is—is busy to-night."
She paused; and in the pause Barnard leaned close to her again, with his most friendly and reassuring manner.