If that lunch was a success it was due to Anthony Gethryn. Until he came to the rescue there was an alternation of small-talk and silence so uncomfortable as to destroy the savour of good food and better wine. Sir Arthur was sinking deep into the toils of sorrow—one could see it—Miss Masterson was anxious about her sister and her absent lover, and the hostess was plainly discomposed.
So Anthony took command. The situation suited him well enough. He talked without stint. Against their desire he interested them. It must be believed that he had what is known as “a way with him.” Soon he extorted questions, questions which he turned to discussion. From discussion to smiles was an easy step. Sir Arthur’s face lost some of its gloom. Dora frankly beamed.
Only the woman at the head of the table remained aloof. Anthony took covert glances at her. He could not help it. Her pallor made him uncomfortable. He blamed himself. He saw that she was keeping herself under an iron control, and fell to wondering, as he talked to the others, how much more beautiful she would be were this fear or anxiety lifted from her shoulders.
But was she beautiful? He stole another look, purely analytical. No, she was not: not, at least, if beauty were merely perfection of feature. The eyes were too far apart. The mouth was too big. No, she was better than beautiful. She was herself, and therefore——
Anthony reproved himself for the recurrence of these adolescent emotions. His thoughts took a grimmer turn. He thought of that spongelike mess that had been a man’s head. It was time he got to work.
He slid into another story. The silence which fell was flattering. It was a good story. Whether it was true is no matter.
It was a tale of Constantinople, which Anthony knew as his listeners knew London. He had, it seemed, been there, almost penniless, in nineteen hundred and twelve. It was a tale of A Prosperous Merchant, A Secret Service Man, A Flower of the Harem, and A Globe-Trotter. Its ramifications were amusing, thrilling, pathetic, and it was at all times enthralling. Its conclusion was sad, for the Flower of the Harem was drowned. She could not swim the distance she had set herself. And the Secret Service Man went back to his Secret Service Duties.
Sir Arthur cleared his throat. Dora Masterson’s eyes held tears. At the head of the table her sister sat rigid, her white hands gripping the arms of her chair. Anthony noted her attitude with quickened pulse: she had shown no interest until the end of the story.
“Of course,” he said, “she was a little fool to try it. Think of the distance. And the tide was strong. It’d be impossible even for an athletic Englishwoman.” He is to be congratulated upon making so ridiculous a statement in so natural a tone.
“Oh! Mr. Gethryn, surely not,” cried Dora excitedly. “Why Loo——”