The lantern light glowed on pretty shoulders and bare arms, on laces and silks and splendid jewels, and stained the sombre black of the men with vague warm hues of rose.
Westmore, leaning over to address Barres, said with an amused air:
“You know, Garry, it’s Corot Mandel who is putting on this thing for the Gerhardts.”
“Certainly I know it,” nodded Barres. “Didn’t he try to get Thessa for it?”
Thessalie, whose colour was high and whose dark eyes, roaming, had grown very brilliant, suddenly held out her hand to one of two men who, traversing the inclined aisle beside her, halted to salute her.
“Your name was on our lips,” she said gaily. “How do you do, Mr. Mandel! How do you do, Mr. Trenor! Are you going to amaze us with a miracle in this enchanting place?”
The two men paid their respects to her, and, with unfeigned astonishment and admiration, to Dulcie, whom they recognised only when Thessalie named her with delighted malice.
“Oh, I say, Miss Soane,” began Mandel, leaning on the back of the marble seat, “you and Miss Dunois might have helped me a lot if I’d known you were to be in this neighbourhood.”
Esmé Trenor bent over Barres, dropping his voice:
“We had to use a couple of Broadway hacks—you’ll recognise ’em through their paint—you understand?—the 372 two that New York screams for. It’s too bad. Corot wanted something unfamiliarly beautiful and young and fresh. But these Northbrook amateurs are incredibly amateurish.”