"Raeburn has a party to-night. And there are at least three or four others besides ourselves. I should think food and service will be equally scarce!"
Wharton glanced quickly at Marcella. But she was talking to Mrs. Lane, and had heard nothing.
"Let me just show you the terrace," he said to her. "No chance of dinner for another twenty minutes."
They strolled away together. As they moved along, a number of men waylaid the speaker of the night with talk and congratulations—glancing the while at the lady on his left. But presently they were away from the crowd which hung about the main entrance to the terrace, and had reached the comparatively quiet western end, where were only a few pairs and groups walking up and down.
"Shall I see Mr. Bennett?" she asked him eagerly, as they paused by the parapet, looking down upon the grey-brown water swishing under the fast incoming tide. "I want to."
"I asked him to dine, but he wouldn't. He has gone to a prayer-meeting—at least I guess so. There is a famous American evangelist speaking in Westminster to-night—I am as certain as I ever am of anything that Bennett is there—dining on Moody and Sankey. Men are a medley, don't you think?—So you liked his speech?"
"How coolly you ask!" she said, laughing. "Did you?"
He was silent a moment, his smiling gaze fixed on the water. Then he turned to her.
"How much gratitude do you think I owe him?"
"As much as you can pay," she said with emphasis. "I never heard anything more complete, more generous."