Thessalie was chattering away with Corot Mandel and Westmore; Esmé Trenor gazed upon Dulcie in wonder not unmixed with chagrin:
“You’ve never forgiven me, Dulcie, have you?”
“For what?” she inquired indifferently.
“For not discovering you when I should have.”
She smiled, but the polite effort and her detachment of all interest in him were painfully visible to Esmé.
“I’m sorry you still remember me so unkindly,” he murmured.
“But I never do remember you at all,” she explained so candidly that Barres was obliged to avert his amused face, and Esmé Trenor reddened to the roots of his elaborate hair. Mandel, with a wry grin, linked his arm in Trenor’s and drew him away toward the flight of steps which was the stage entrance to the dressing rooms below.
“Good-bye!” he said, waving his hat. “Hope you’ll like my moonlight frolic!”
“Where’s your bally moon!” demanded Westmore.
As he spoke, an unseen orchestra began to play “Au Claire de la Lune,” and, behind the woods, silhouetting every trunk and branch and twig, the glittering edge of a huge, silvery moon appeared.