“Indeed, you had better,” he said, releasing her as the dance music ran down and ceased. “If you don’t get some sleep you won’t feel like travelling to-morrow.”
“Will you explain to Thessa?”
“Of course. Good-night, dear.”
She gave him her hand in silence, turned and offered it to Westmore, then went away toward her room.
Westmore, who had been fidgeting a lot since Thessalie had retired for a tête-à-tête with a perfectly unknown and alarmingly good-looking young man whom he never before had laid eyes on, finally turned short in his restless pacing of the studio.
“What the deuce can be keeping Thessa?” he demanded. “And who the devil is that black-eyed young sprig of France you brought home with you?”
“Sit down and I’ll tell you,” said Barres crisply, instinctively resenting his friend’s uncalled for solicitude in Thessalie’s behalf.
So Westmore seated himself and Barres told him all about the evening’s adventures. And he was still lingering unctuously over the details of the battle at Grogan’s, the recital of which, Westmore demanding, he had begun again, when at the farther end of the studio Thessalie appeared, coming toward them.
Renoux was beside her, very deferential and graceful in his attendance, and with that niceness of attitude which confesses respect in every movement.