"Opera squealer," said Gunther irreverently; "Carmen and all that sort of thing. Bob Holliday's daffy about her. Come on; let's face the music."
He nodded to the attendant waiting with extended ears, who now sprang forward to open the door on the flaring room and the dazzling white of the richly covered table set for five.
Holliday and two women in décolleté instantly burst into exclamations of reproach.
"Sorry; couldn't be helped—business," said Gunther, without taking the pains for a more elaborate apology. Then, sure of his explanation, he added: "You probably missed it. Poor old Majendie's up the spout. Forced resignation. There'll be the devil to pay to-morrow."
The reproaches ceased, succeeded by a rush of excited questions. Holliday, a tall, scoured blond, who had been drumming at the piano, was so disturbed by the news that he forgot his duties as a host.
"Allons, Bobbie," said Mme. Fornez, turning her great Spanish eyes on Beecher with an expression of approval, "introduce your nice-looking friend."
Beecher, amid laughter, was presented. Mme. Fornez, who, from pride perhaps, chose to retain the freedom of the peasant, tapped him familiarly on the arm and said: "I like you. You don't look so clean and stupid as most of your dollar men. You will sit by my side. I select you. Monsieur Gunthère, Bobbie—enough of your old panics and your stocks; you have two charming ladies present, that's all you need to know. Bobbie, obey me at once!"
Beecher was giving his hand to Mrs. Craig Fontaine, a young widow, slight, with quick eyes, and almost masculine vitality, and an extraordinary elegance of dress and carriage, whom Gunther called Louise. She was scarcely twenty-six, possessed of a large fortune from her husband, who had been killed in a steeplechase three years before. Her position in society was unquestioned, and, being of a singular temperament, she did as she pleased. She was seen everywhere with young Gunther, and gossip had already arranged their marriage—an eventuality which she alone, who ambitiously desired it, knew to be impossible.
Beecher, who was particularly sensitive to the air of distinction that always surrounded her, even when most unbending, took her hand with a little extra gallantry, saying:
"I changed my mind on your account only, Louise, and I expect you to reward me."