He led the way,—Lenore threw off her opera cloak, thereby showing her dazzling beauty to much greater advantage than before, and slipping her bare rounded arm through Boy’s with a little coaxing pressure, she took him into a room of considerable size, where a light supper was laid out with a good deal of elegance, and where several other men were sitting, all rather red-faced, and with something of a free-and-easy air about them. Boy was introduced to the party as “the son of the Honourable James D’Arcy-Muir,” whereat he wondered a little, as he could not see what his parentage had to do with his present way of passing his evening. But he presently decided that as his host was a Marquis, no doubt all the gentlemen with him were of the bluest blood and highest degree, and that therefore it was necessary to say who he was, in order that he might be known as a fit companion for such distinguished personages. Suppose they knew he was expelled from Sandhurst! The hot blood surged to the very tips of his ears as this thought crossed his mind, and he took his seat at table like one in a dream.
“Champagne, Mr. D’Arcy-Muir?” inquired the Marquis courteously, passing the bottle.
“Thanks!” And Boy, filling his glass, raised it to his lips and bowed low to the fair Lenore sitting next to him, who, smiling, bowed in return. And after the little pause which generally follows the entry of a stranger at a feast, conversation began again and soon became argumentative and noisy. Politics and society were discussed, and several of the gentlemen present appeared, for gentlemen, to have some curious notions of honour.
“Oh, hang all that sort of rot,” said one, a man with a clean-shaven face, and a physiognomy apparently got up as a copy of Mr. Pinero’s—“Success is the only thing you need care about. Money, money, money! People don’t care a brass button whether you are honourable or not. Tradesmen are more civil to the fellows who run up long bills than to those who owe short ones. It’s all a matter of hard cash. Principle is an old card, long played out.”
“Did you see that new girl in the piece at the Harem Theatre last night?” said another. “Little idiot! She can’t act. She ought to be a charwoman.”
“Perhaps she cannot do charing,” suggested the Marquis, nodding at his daughter, who at once replenished Boy’s glass. “It is a métier!—it may require study!”
They all laughed.
“She’s an idiot, I say,” went on the former speaker—“She could make thousands if she would just let the actor-manager do as he likes with her——”
“Gentlemen,” interrupted the Marquis with a fierce twirl of his moustache, “I must beg you to remember that my daughter is present!”
Boy looked at him admiringly, and warmed to the fine spirit he exhibited. He, Boy, was rapidly getting indignant at the unmannerly way in which these eating and drinking men were eyeing the exquisite Lenore,—one man had actually wafted her a kiss from the other side of the table,—and she had pretended not to see. But of course she had seen, and was no doubt hurt and disgusted. She must have been disgusted,—any sweet girl like that would feel outraged at such vulgar familiarity! Boy was growing more and more heated and excited as the time went on; he had eaten scarcely anything, but he had taken all the champagne given to him, and there was a buzzing in his head like the swarming of a hive of bees. At a sign from the Marquis he got up unsteadily, and accepting a cigarette went with all the party into a side room, where Lenore drove him to still further desperation and infatuation by taking his cigarette from him, putting it for a moment between her own rosy lips, then lighting it and giving it back to him with a mischievous curtsey and smile that were enough to confuse a much wiser and clearer head than that of a young man only just turned twenty. Dimly he became aware of a card-table being pushed towards him,—dimly through the brain-fumes of smoke and champagne he heard his host, the Marquis de Gramont, asking him to play a game with them.