“So it does, man, so it does! If I found the end of that, I fancy I would find a new MacTaggart. It's—it's—it's not a run of notes I want—indeed the air's my own, and I might make it what I chose—but an experience or something of that sort outside my opportunities, or my recollection.”
Count Victor's glance fell on Mrs. Petullo, but hers was not on him; she sought the eyes of the Chamberlain.
“Madame looks your way,” he indicated, and at once the Chamberlain's visage changed.
“She'd be better to look to her man,” he said, so roughly that the Count once more had all his misgivings revived.
“We may not guess how bitter a prospect that may be,” said he with pity for the creature, and he moved towards her, with the Chamberlain, of necessity, but with some reluctance, at his heel.
Mrs. Petullo saw the lagging nature of her old love's advance; it was all that was needed now to make her evening horrible.
“Oh!” said she, smiling, but still with other emotions than amusement or goodwill struggling in her countenance, “I was just fancying you would be none the waur o' a wife to look to your buttons.”
“Buttons!” repeated the Chamberlain.
“See,” she said, and lightly turned him round so that his back was shown, with his plaid no longer concealing the absence of a button from a skirt of his Highland jacket.
Count Victor looked, and a rush of emotions fairly overwhelmed him, for he knew he had the missing button in his pocket.