“And then—after Paris?”
“After Paris? Oh, Spain possibly. Or the Antipodes!”—with a short laugh.
“Who’s talking about the Antipodes?” suddenly chimed in Lady Arabella. “Home to bed’s my next move. Gillian, you come with me—the car can take you on to Hampstead after dropping me in Park Lane. And Virginie can drive back with Magda.”
“Yes, do go with Marraine,” said Magda, nodding acquiescence in reply to Gillian’s glance of interrogation. “I have to dress yet.”
There was a general move towards the door.
“Good-bye”—Magda’s slim hand lay for a moment in Quarrington’s. “I—I’m sorry you’re going away, Saint Michel.”
Only Michael heard the last two words, uttered in that trainante, slightly husky voice that held so much of music and appeal. He turned abruptly and made his way out of the room in the wake of Gillian and Lady Arabella.
“You’d better postpone your visit to the Antipodes, Mr. Quarrington,” said the latter, as presently they all three stood together in the vestibule, halted by the stream of people pouring out from the theatre. “I’m giving a dinner-party next week, with a ‘crush’ to follow. Stay and come to it.”
“It’s awfully kind of you, Lady Arabella, but I’m afraid it’s impossible.”
“Fiddlesticks! You’re a free agent, aren’t you?”—looking at him keenly.