In the cab Sybil leant back, frightened. She was afraid of Gore Helmsley's too-pleasant smile—afraid of the look in his eyes.
Esmé had whispered a few swiftly-spoken words to him, directing that their lies should be alike.
"It was exceedingly awkward," she said drily.
Angy had ordered everything he could think of. They began on iced caviare and finished up with forced peaches. He was exceedingly rich, and a snare wrought of gold was the only one he knew of.
Sybil was quiet through dinner, eating nothing, visibly unhappy.
Afterwards, as they sat in the cool, smoking, Gore Helmsley slipped to her side.
"Was there ever anything so unlucky?" he said.
"It was—very unlucky," said Sybil, dully.
"That woman hunting round for dinner, so she says. She's fairly decent, I fancy, won't blab. She lied brilliantly. It was so very awkward, and now Cissy will be quite disappointed. She 'phoned to say she was just starting to meet us. It was a lovely day together," he whispered. "Come to tea with me to-morrow, Sybil."
"You promised me my letters," she shot out, her heart thumping, "and my I.O.U. Give them to me."