Leigh flushed, his lowering gaze fastened angrily on Corwin, and Virginia drew a breath of relief when she heard the applause outside. Caraffi had given them a cheery encore; he was coming off the platform, and Fanchon must go on. Virginia called to her softly.
“Now, please, Mrs. Carter!” she said.
Fanchon turned and looked at her, saw by her face that Virginia had seen too much, and her eyes blazed with anger. She took a step forward and snatched up her music-roll, running her fingers over the leaves and biting her lip.
“Tell them to play this, please,” she said, with her head up.
Without looking at it, Virginia took it to the director of the orchestra, glad to escape the little scene. It seemed to her that the air was charged, and she knew that the wait had been too long already. She could hear the impatient stir outside.
There was, indeed, a little stir of impatience in the hall. Two or three young ushers went up and down the aisles with pitchers of iced water, and the rear seats began to fill up with gentlemen who were eating cloves. The rest of the audience studied the program, expectant. “No. 2, Mrs. William Carter, solo,” appeared on it in fine type.
“My daughter-in-law’s going to sing next,” said Mr. Carter, remembering the broken engagement and putting out a feeler. “Seen her yet, colonel?”
“Saw her the other day.” The colonel clasped the top of his cane, leaning on it, and looking absently at an amazing pair of feet and ankles that he saw approaching from behind the palms. “She’s mighty pretty.”
“Think so?” Mr. Carter smiled. “Notice her eyes? Something fawn-like about them—and velvety. We’ve got to calling her—among ourselves, of course—‘the wild fawn.’”
At this moment one of the old ladies behind them interrupted. She tapped Mr. Carter’s shoulder with her fan.