Lady Arabella’s sharp voice cut across his reflections.
“I don’t care for this next thing,” she said, flicking at her programme. “Mrs. Grey and I are going round to see Magda. Will you come with us?”
Quarrington had every intention of politely excusing himself. Instead of which he found himself replying:
“With pleasure—if Mademoiselle Wielitzska won’t think I’m intruding.”
Lady Arabella chuckled.
“Well, she intruded on you that day in the fog, didn’t she? So you’ll be quits.” She glanced impatiently round the box. “Where on earth has Davilof vanished to? Has he gone up in flame?”
Michael laughed involuntarily.
“Something of the kind, I fancy,” he replied. “Anyway, he departed rather hurriedly.”
“Poor Antoine!” Gillian spoke with a kind of humorous compassion. “He has a temperament. I’m glad I haven’t.”
“You have the best of all temperaments, Mrs. Grey,” answered Michael, as they both followed Lady Arabella out of the box.