“It is better that we keep to Mr. Dewson’s arrangements, I think.”
“Very well.”
O’Hagan proffered his arm. He led her doorward. A sibilant chorus of gasps arose. Brandon was up, now. His face flushed deeply, and paled, vying in its pallor with the serviette which he crushed in one shaking hand. He thrust back his chair.
A staccato cough drew his gaze to a distant table. Mr. Dewson—conscientious stage-manager—feared that one of the cast was like to overact his rôle. Brandon hesitated, fuming.
La Belle Yvette knew a fearful joy. Her inordinate vanity was gratified by this scene, but even her great daring recoiled from that which pended. Yet she offered no real resistance. True, she placed her hand upon O’Hagan’s, but he calmly clasped it in his own.
“Act as I direct,” he said, bending his picturesque head and looking into the half-fearful eyes.
He glanced aside to where the head-waiter stood, a figure of pitiable indecision, a study in fatuous ineptitude.
“My man—this lady’s cloak.”
Upon the hushed silence of the supper-room the words rang out sharply.
The head-waiter hesitated. The head-waiter at Varano’s is a person of proper proportions and seemly dignity. It is no part of his important functions menially to run for hats and cloaks. O’Hagan’s unoccupied hand raised the glass.