Her glance fell and the color flew to her temples. Gethryn’s face lost all its color.
“Pretty girl,” drawled Clifford, “but what a dirty little beggar she lugs about with her.”
Pick heard and turned, his eyes falling first on Gethryn, who met his look with one that was worse than a kick. He glanced next at Braith, and then he turned green under the dirty yellow of the skin. Braith’s eyes seemed to strike fire; his mouth was close set. The Jew’s eyes shifted, only to fall on the pale, revengeful glare of T. Hoppley Bulfinch, who was half rising from his chair with all sorts of possibilities written on every feature.
“Let him go,” whispered Braith, and turned his back.
Bulfinch sat down, his eyes like saucers. “I’d like—but not now!” he sputtered in a weird whisper.
Clifford had missed the whole thing. He had only eyes for the girl.
Gethryn sat staring after the couple, who were at that moment passing the gate into the Boulevard St Michel. He saw Yvonne stop and hastily thrust something into the Jew’s hand, then, ignoring his obsequious salute, leave him and hurry down the Rue de Medicis.
The next Gethryn knew, Braith was standing beside him.
“Rex, will you join us at the Golden Pheasant for dinner?” was what he said, but his eyes added, “Don’t let people see you look like that.”
“I—I—don’t know,” said Gethryn. “Yes, I think so,” with an effort.