"Why didn't you bring him with you this evening?" she asked. "Did you tell him I invited him?"
"Yes."
"Oh.... Couldn't he come?"
And, as he made no answer: "Couldn't he?" she repeated. "Who is he, anyway—"
"Clive Bailey."
She sat motionless, looking at him, the question still parting her lips. Dully in her ears the music sounded. The pallor which had stricken her face faded, grew again, then waned in the faint return of colour.
Dane, who was looking away from her rather fixedly, spoke first, still not looking at her: "Yes," he said in even, agreeable tones, "Clive was my white companion.... I gave him your note to read.... He did not seem to think that he ought to come."
"Why?" Her lips scarcely formed the word.
"—As long as you were not aware of whom you were inviting.... There had been some misunderstanding between you and him—or so I gathered—from his attitude."