"She will be here presently," he decided, as he returned with what grace he could Mme. Lorraine's effusive greeting.
She was looking even lovelier than last night, in a costume of silvery silk that looked like the shimmer of moonlight on a lake. Her white throat rose from a mist of lace clasped by a diamond star. In her rich puffs of dark hair nestled white Niphetos roses shedding their delicate perfume about her as she moved with languid grace. The costume had been chosen for him. She had a fancy that it would appeal to his sense of beauty and purity more than her glowing robes of last night.
She was right. He started with surprise and pleasure at the dazzling sight, but the admiration was quickly succeeded by disgust.
"So beautiful, yet so wicked!" he said, to himself.
"You were singing. Pray go on," he said, forcing her back to the piano.
It would be easier to sit and listen than to take part in the conversation with his mind on the qui vive for the entrance of her he had come to save. He listened mechanically to the sentimental Italian chanson madame chose, but kept his eyes on the door, expecting every minute to see a petite white form enter the silken portals.
Remond saw the watchfulness, and scowled with quick malignity.
"Other eyes than mine watch for her coming," he thought.
The song went on. The minutes waned. Van Zandt furtively consulted his watch.
"Past ten. What if that wicked woman has already forced her to retire?" he thought, in alarm, and the minutes dragged like leaden weights.