And then something peculiar and untoward happened to Lionel Varick. The words rose to his lips: "That horrible woman haunts me—haunts me! I can never get rid of her—she seems always there—"
Had he uttered those words aloud, or had he not? He glanced sharply round, and then, with relief, he made up his mind that he had not uttered them, for the man sitting by his side was looking straight before him, with a pleased, interested expression on his plain, intelligent face.
Varick pulled himself together. This would never do! He asked himself, with a touch of acute anxiety, whether it were possible that he was losing his nerve? He had always possessed the valuable human gift of being able to control, absolutely, his secret feelings and his emotions.
"Did I tell you that Miss Brabazon is here?" he asked carelessly.
And the other exclaimed: "I'm glad of that. I formed a tremendously high opinion of that girl last year. By the way, I was surprised to hear, quite by accident, the other day, that she's a lot of money. I don't quite know why, but I formed the impression that it was her friend who was well-to-do—didn't you?"
"I never thought about it," said Varick indifferently. "By the way, Miss Brabazon's old aunt, a certain Miss Burnaby, is here too. It's rather a quiet party, Panton; I hope you won't be bored."
"I'm never bored. Who else have you got staying with you?"
Varick ran over the list of his guests, only leaving out one, and, after a scarcely perceptible pause, he remedied the omission.
"Then there's Miss Farrow's niece; she was called after her aunt, so her real name is Blanche—"
"'Known to her friends as Bubbles,'" quoted Dr. Panton, with a cynical inflection in his voice.