"What's the entertainment for to-night?" asked Olive of Larssen.
"I propose to take you to the new Cabaret," said he.
"First-rate!"
"But it doesn't start until ten-thirty. We've plenty of time. First, I want you to play to me."
Olive went over to the piano, and Larssen followed to light the candles and turn back the case of polished rosewood inlaid with ivory.
She laid her fingers on the keys and looked up at him expectantly.
"Something lively," he ordered, and she rattled into the latest success of the musical comedy stage. Such as it was, she played it brilliantly. To-night she was in that morphia mood of the terrace of Monte Carlo when she had first told him of her contempt for her husband.
Under cover of the playing, while Sir Francis was reading a novel of turf life, Olive whispered: "Can't we have a few moments together by ourselves?"
"I'll arrange it," answered Larssen.
"How?"