While he spoke with Miss Lambert, Glynn noticed that her father and Deering exchanged a few sentences in a low tone, and that Lambert, although he had completely mastered his temporary disturbance, had by no means recovered his spirits. A look of care and thought clouded his brow, though he spoke with some animation to one or two acquaintances. Deering on the contrary looked supremely calm, with something of exultation in his cold, light eyes.
"Miss Lambert sings well," he said. "I am no great judge of music, nor do I care for it, yet I should imagine that such a voice, such a style, ought to be worth a good deal of money."
"I don't intend her to sell her songs," said Lambert, roughly. "And now, Madame Davilliers, I'll wish you good-night. I'm a bit tired after my journey. Elsie, get on your hat. I'll take her home with me to-night, madame, with a thousand thanks for your good care."
Elsie rose from the piano, and cast an anxious look on her father. Then she gave her hand to Glynn, bowed to Deering, presented her brow to madame's kiss, and slipping her arm through Antoinette's, left the room.
"Let me see you soon," said Lambert to Glynn. "You do not return to London just yet?"
"Not this week, at least."
"Suppose you breakfast with me to-morrow, Captain Lambert," said Deering. "We'll smoke the pipe of peace, and talk over our adventures by flood and field."
"Thank you," shortly, "I never breakfast away from home."
"Oh, indeed! Then I shall call on you, and pay my respects to Miss Lambert at the same time," returned Deering in a tone of imperturbable good breeding.
Lambert, who was making his adieux to Madame Davilliers, did not seem to hear, but before he reached the door he turned quickly back, and said in a constrained tone to Deering: