Milbanke looked distressed.
"But, my dear——"
"Yes, I know you hate society. But just this once—I—I wish you to come——"
She made the appeal with a sudden anxious gesture, born of a very subtle, a very instinctive motive—a motive that had for its basis an obscure and quite unacknowledged sense of self-protection.
Milbanke—materialist born—heard only the words, noting nothing of the undermeaning.
"But, my dear," he expostulated, "the thing is—is impossible. Mr. Angelo Tomes has promised to expound his theories to me after dinner to-night——"
He looked at her nervously.
She was silent for a minute or two—suddenly and profoundly conscious that, in all the radiant glory of her surroundings, she stood alone. At the painful consciousness, she felt her throat swell, but with a defiant refusal to be conquered by her feelings, she gave a quick, high laugh.
"Oh, very well!" she cried—"very well! As you like!"
And without looking at him again, she turned and entered the coffee-room of the hotel.