His smooth brow wrinkled and his mouth tightened to a thin straight line beneath the fair “regulation” moustache. He fumbled under his overcoat for loose silver, drew out a handful and paid off the taximan.
Sometimes walking in the gutter in order to avoid the throngs upon the pavement, regardless of the fact that his glossy dress-boots were becoming spattered with mud, Gray hurried off in pursuit of the pair. Twenty yards ahead he overtook them, as they were on the point of passing a picture dealer’s window, from which yellow light streamed forth into the humid dusk. They were walking slowly, and Gray stopped in front of them.
“Hello, you two!” he cried. “Where are you off to? I was on my way to call for you, Rita.”
Flushed and boyish he stood before them, and his annoyance was increased by their failure to conceal the fact that his appearance was embarrassing if not unwelcome. Mrs. Monte Irvin was a petite, pretty woman, although some of the more wonderful bronzed tints of her hair suggested the employment of henna, and her naturally lovely complexion was delicately and artistically enhanced by art. Nevertheless, the flower-like face peeping out from the folds of a gauzy scarf, like a rose from a mist, whilst her soft little chin nestled into the fur, might have explained even in the case of an older man the infatuation which Quentin Gray was at no pains to hide.
She glanced up at her companion, Sir Lucien Pyne, a swarthy, cynical type of aristocrat, imperturbably. Then: “I had left a note for you, Quentin,” she said hurriedly. She seemed to be in a dangerously high-strung condition.
“But I have booked a table and a box,” cried Gray, with a hint of juvenile petulance.
“My dear Gray,” said Sir Lucien coolly, “we are men of the world—and we do not look for consistency in womenfolk. Mrs. Irvin has decided to consult a palmist or a hypnotist or some such occult authority before dining with you this evening. Doubtless she seeks to learn if the play to which you propose to take her is an amusing one.”
His smile of sardonic amusement Gray found to be almost insupportable, and although Sir Lucien refrained from looking at Mrs. Irvin whilst he spoke, it was evident enough that his words held some covert significance, for:
“You know perfectly well that I have a particular reason for seeing him,” she said.
“A woman’s particular reason is a man’s feeble excuse,” murmured Sir Lucien rudely. “At least, according to a learned Arabian philosopher.”