“Why—yes,” Farleigh had no further chance to speak with Pix alone. “Yes, I’ll come. Thursday, you say, at——?”
“Five.” Pix beamed.
“At five. Yes; it will be amusing, I’m sure.”
“Think so too. Suppose I may come also, Pix?” Kent was looking at Farleigh’s profile with a look that made Pix swallow the rest of his coffee with a gulp.
“Why, of course, old man—delighted. Only it’s hardly in your line, you know—a political, I mean to say, a lobby-maniac; a maniac for office, whose wife——”
“A maniac for office?” Kent laughed shortly. “Well, no. That’s rather at the other end of my line. However, I’ll come. What, going?” as Pix rose.
“Sorry—but you can’t expect manners in a doer of good. I’m to deliver an address at the Rough Rider Lustitude at nine-thirty—‘Is marriage a failure?’ oh, my dears!” Pix cast a wild eye at them, an eye that was something else too, could they have seen. “An address from me—and it’s their ladies’ evening. Good-night—good-night,” he shook Farleigh’s hand with a despairing gratitude, “you don’t know what this dinner has done for me though, as preparation—ah—I mean to say—ahem! you understand.” He dropped the slender hand and fled. Dash it! he always did make some silly ass of himself, just when things were at their most delicate—oh, hang! (this to Binks, under his breath) he supposed all philanthropists were bunglers.
“Farleigh”—left alone, Kent came over and put his hands on the slim shoulders—“Farleigh”—his whole attitude asked a question.
Farleigh screened her eyes with the blue black lashes, and laughed. “I’m going to a dance—the McCleans are stopping for me—where are you off to, Kent, the Club?”
“Yes,” Kent’s hands fell to his sides. “The Club.” He strode away from her, out of the room.