Sybil was lying back in a long chair, her face white, her eyes half resentful, half fascinated. Jimmie Helmsley, bending over her, began to stroke her hands softly. His dark eyes bore no half thoughts in them.
"After dinner," he whispered. "I won't tease you any more about that silly debt."
Esmé pushed aside a spiky frond; she was righteously angry.
"Oh, Sybil," she said. "Your mother asked me if I came across you to take you home in our car. I was sampling hotels and luckily ran you to earth."
Sybil sprang up. Resentment, fascination, merged to sudden wild relief. She had told her mother that she was spending the day with a school friend.
"But—How very lucky your running across us." Gore Helmsley's teeth showed too much as he smiled; it made his greeting exceedingly like a snarl.
"Oh, yes, so lucky." Esmé listened to Helmsley's pattered explanation. "His cousin, Mrs Gore, etc. Very awkward. Out of Brighton. They had come here to wait for her."
"Very awkward," said Esmé, drily. "Well, you must join us at dinner. You can't wait here—alone."
A waiter padded noiselessly in. Dinner would be ready in ten minutes in Number Twenty-seven. They had procured the roses which Monsieur had ordered.
It amused Esmé a little to watch Gore Helmsley fight back his anger, mask himself in a moment in a thin cloak of carelessness. He followed the waiter into the hall.