"What girl?"
"She stood behind you with her hands on your shoulders."
"How the devil do I know," he said, savagely—"her name's
Mazie—something—or—other."
"Did you bring her?"
"Yes. Did Querida bring you?" he asked, insolently.
[Illustration: "And the last rose dropped from her hand.">[
She looked at him in a confused, bewildered way—laid her hand on his sleeve with an impulse as though he had been about to strike her.
He no longer knew what he was doing in the sudden surge of unreasoning anger that possessed him; he shook her hand from his sleeve and turned.
And the next moment, on the stairs, she was beside him again, slender, pale, close to his shoulder, descending the great staircase beside him, one white-gloved hand resting lightly within his arm.
Neither spoke. At the cloak-room she turned and looked at him—stood a moment slowly tearing the orchids from her breast and dropping the crushed petals underfoot.