“Of what?” she asked, as if almost startled.
“That—Santa Lucia?”
“Oh—is it?”
He looked astonished.
“Oh—yes, I must say I am rather sick of it!” she said quickly.
She laid down her spoon.
“Don’t you like the Zabaione?”
“Yes, it’s delicious. But I have had enough. You ordered such a very good dinner!”
She began to use her fan again. The noise of voices in the room was becoming like the noise of voices in a nightmare. She was longing to confirm or banish her suspicion by a long look at Beryl’s companion. She felt sure now that if she looked again at Arabian she would be absolutely certain, even from a distance, whether he was or was not the man who had brought about the robbery of her jewels at the Gard du Nord ten years ago. Her mind was fully awake now, and she would be able to see. But, knowing that, she did not dare to look towards Arabian. She was miserable in her uncertainty, but she was afraid of having her horrible suspicion confirmed. She was a coward at that moment, and she knew it.
Craven finished his Zabaione and put down his spoon. They had not ordered another course. The dinner was over. But they had not had their coffee yet, and he asked for it.