“Why, he’s here, too—over there in the front row—chap with the waxed moustache and putty-coloured face, staring at her now.”
“Oh, that animal! And what right has he got to look like that?”
The buzz of the scandalmonger grew more confidential: “They say he’s never forgiven her for leaving him—though the Lord knows she had every reason, if half they tell is true. They say he’s mad about her still, gives her no rest, follows her everywhere, is all the time begging her to return to him—”
“But who the deuce is the beast?” Lanyard interrupted, impatiently. “You know, I don’t like his face.”
“Prince Victor,” the whisper pursued with relish—“by-blow, they say, of a Russian grand duke and a Manchu princess—half Russian, half Chinese, all devil!”
Without looking, Lanyard felt that Prince Victor’s stare had again shifted from the women, and that the mongrel son of the alleged grand duke was aware he had become a subject of comment. So the eminent collector of works of art elected to dismiss the subject with a negligent lift of one shoulder.
“Ah, well! Daresay he can’t help his ugly make-up. All the same, he’s spoiling my afternoon. Be a good fellow, do, and put him out.”
The Briton chuckled a deprecating chuckle; meaning to say, he hoped Lanyard was spoofing; but since one couldn’t be sure, one’s only wise course was to play safe.
“Really, Monsieur Lanyard! I’m afraid one couldn’t quite do that, you know!”