All the evil in him seemed to be concentrated in that glare. And yet its object remained unconscious of it or, if at all sensitive, dissembled superbly. The man was apparently no more present to her perceptions than any other person there, except her companion.
Presently, becoming sensible of Lanyard’s intrigued regard, the man looked up, caught him in a stare and, mortally affronted, rewarded him with a look of virulent enmity.
Not to be outdone, Lanyard gave a fleeting smile, a bare curving of lips together with an almost imperceptible narrowing of amused eyes—goading the other to the last stage of exasperation—then calmly ignored the fellow, returning indifferent attention to the progress of the sale.
Since nothing was being offered at the moment to draw a bid from him, he maintained a semblance of interest solely to cover his thoughts, meanwhile lending a civil ear to the garrulous tongue of a dealer of his acquaintance who, having edged nearer to indulge a failing for gossip, found a ready auditor. For when Lanyard began to heed the sense of the other’s words, their subject was the companion of Lady Diantha Mainwaring.
“... Princess Sofia Vassilyevski, you know, the Russian beauty.”
Lanyard lifted his eyebrows the fraction of an inch, meaning to say he didn’t know but at the same time didn’t object to enlightenment.
“But you must have heard of her! For weeks all London has been talking about her jewels, her escapades, her unhappy marriage.”
“Married?” Lanyard made a sympathetic mouth. “And so young! Quel dommage!”
“But separated from her husband.”
“Ah!” Lanyard brightened up. “And who, may one ask, is the husband?”