The little laughing mask slipped from Poppy's face, her eyes were two sapphire crescents darting fright under down-dropped lids. There was a look in Dicky's face she did not care for. But Rickman—as Maddox had testified—was a perfect little gentleman when he was drunk, and at the sight of Pilkington, chivalry, immortal chivalry, leapt in his heart.
He became suddenly grave, steady and coherent.
"I was just going, Miss Grace. But—if you want me to stay a little longer, I'll stay."
"You'd better go," said Miss Grace.
Her eyes followed him sullenly as he went; so did Pilkington's.
"Well," she said, "I suppose that's what you wanted?"
"Yes, but there's no good overdoing the thing, you know. This," said Pilkington, "is a damned sight too expensive game for him to play."
"He's all right. It wasn't his fault. I let him drink too much champagne."
"What did you do that for? Couldn't you see he'd had enough already?"
"How was I to know? He's nicer when he's drunk than other people are when they're sober."