Gerald swung round. "You have me beat, as the Irish say," he muttered abruptly. "I know I'm not master of myself. If I speak to her, it might be against my better judgment; I might regret it. You are right—it is better to temporise, to postpone a decision. Yes, it is better—I am almost sure."
He spoke absently, jerkily. In his mind was one of those pictures which rise unbidden—and apparently without reason—to the memory. It was the picture of the face of a man he had remarked that afternoon at the Wallace collection, standing in the doorway of the Boucher room, as the Rosenberg party went downstairs. The man had a noticeable face—dark, with an expression in the eyes which brought to mind the word "smouldering."
He had watched the gay little party of three with an air that was like Mephistopheles sneering at Faust. "So! You are snared—snared like other men, by a pretty face and luminous eyes——"
That was what the silent watcher had conveyed to the prosperous young suitor.
Oddly, the recollection of his face, swimming all unaware into the field of memory, turned the scale.
"Yes, father, I shall go," said Gerald.
*****
"Why, where's Jerry?" demanded Mims, as she and Virginia entered the drawing-room, and proceeded to greet a couple of young men, who stood there with the before-I-have-dined expression upon their clean faces. "How do you do, Lawrence? How do you do, Mr. Bent? I expect our box will hold five."
"I telephoned Bent an hour ago, Mims," said Mr. Rosenberg. "Poor old Gerald has had a stroke of bad luck. I have been obliged to send him away."
Mims paused in consternation, and, as though she could not help it, her glance flew to Virginia. "To send him away? Why, where?" she cried blankly.