He had to fall back then and let her go. But he followed her down the stairs. The light in his eyes flickered out, leaving a sullen admiration.
"Well," he said, "I warn you. I've a bit of a score to settle with Barnaby."
She turned on him. She had reached the bottom; her foot was on the crimson carpet that lay under the gallery; a little way off a handful of men were talking with their backs turned, hilarious at the climax of a sporting tale. She looked at the dark face above her; her lips were white now, her eyes were blazing. "Are you threatening—him?" she cried, and the devil in Rackham smiled.
She took a few rash steps, hardly knowing in what direction.
"You needn't look for him here," said Rackham bitterly. "Don't let his friends think you jealous."
From where she stood she could see in at the open doorway of one of the sitting-out rooms, a dim, mysterious haunt of palms, the chairs drawn back in the shadow. Was not that Barnaby and a woman in a glittering green dress, listening with her face uplifted—?
Ah, what right had she to run to him?—One of the men standing about under the gallery had looked round. She heard him mutter it was a shame. What was a shame? Not anything that could be spoken or done to her.... She threw up her head, walking straight on as if she were walking in her sleep. The Duchess and Kitty Drake were together half-way up the room; they moved down to meet her, exchanging looks.
"My dear," said the Duchess solemnly, "you look fatigued."
"I am tired," she said.
"I thought so. Fagged out. You have danced too much. Major Willes—"