He laid his fingers lightly on her arm and guided her up the long, dim garden.
Followed by Serracauld and Barnard, they traversed the shadowy pathways and emerged upon an open space of lawn that fronted the house.
Three or four of the private rooms were already occupied; and with the faint streams of light that poured from their open windows, came the pleasant murmuring of talk and laughter.
As the little party stepped into the radius of this light, a stately personage came forward deferentially; and, recognising Deerehurst, made a profound bow.
The old nobleman nodded amiably, as to an acquaintance of long standing, and, drawing the man aside, addressed him in French.
The explanation was brief, and almost at once Deerehurst turned back to his companions.
"Come, Mrs. Milbanke!" he said. "Our friend Abbati proves amenable to persuasion. He will give us his prettiest room—though we are unexpected guests."
Clodagh stepped forward with eager curiosity.
"I never thought a restaurant could be like this," she said.
"Very few of them are, Mrs. Milbanke," murmured Barnard, close behind her. "The usual restaurant is an ostentatious place of white enamel, palms, and lights, where a hundred tongues are vainly endeavouring to drown a band. This little corner will scarcely outlive another season. It's too perfect—too quiet to find favour with the crowd. It was opened under the patronage—rather, at the suggestion—of Prince Menòf, a sybarite millionaire temporarily out of sorts with Paris. But now Paris smiles once more; Menòf has wearied of Venice; and poor Abbati begins to tremble."