“Chichester Barnard.”
“Oh!” The name struck a chord of memory, and the scene at the Turkish bath three days before flashed before Duncan and he frowned. Some telepathy seemed to tell Barnard that he was under discussion, and catching Marjorie’s eye across the table, he raised his champagne glass in gay challenge. She lifted hers to her lips in response, and set it down untasted. “He’s remarkably fine looking,” reiterated Duncan. “Something Byronic about him.”
“Yes,” agreed Marjorie; then turned abruptly to Baron von Valkenberg, who, having refused the sweets, had been for the past five minutes reaching under the table in a manner which suggested the loss of his napkin. “What’s the matter, Baron?”
The young diplomat straightened up suddenly, and gravely replied: “I sink it is a flea.”
For a moment gravity was at a discount, then Marjorie, catching Janet’s eye, rose, and the guests and their hostess trooped back into the drawing-room.
The men wasted but a short time over their cigars and liqueur, and soon the dancing in the ballroom was in full swing. It was after midnight when Chichester Barnard approached Marjorie and asked for a dance. There was a barely perceptible pause, then, with a word of thanks to her former partner, she laid her hand on Barnard’s arm, and they floated out on the floor. They were two of the best dancers in Washington, and Duncan, dancing with Janet, watched them with an odd feeling of unrest. They had circled the room but twice when Barnard stopped near the entrance to the library.
“I must talk to you, Madge,” he whispered hurriedly. “Come in here,” and he led the way to a comfortable leather-covered divan. They had the room to themselves. “Why didn’t you consult me before coming here as chaperon.”
“Because I did not think my affairs interested you further.”
“Madge!” The soft, caressing voice held a note of keen reproach. “How can you so misjudge me?”
But she refused to be placated. “It’s some days since I have seen you,” she replied wearily. “How is your aunt, Mrs. Lawrence?”