Eric was caught and pushed forward with a hasty, “You know Madame Pinto, don’t you? Now, is it worth while waiting for the Oakleighs? Barbara was born a week late, and she’s never caught up.”
Though he fancied that for the last fortnight he had forgotten Barbara and that for the last three months he had rehearsed himself into impassivity, Eric knew that the muscles of his face were stiffening. Lady Poynter was happily too much preoccupied to notice any sign of embarrassment, and in a moment he was at ease again. It would be a strain on his fortitude, perhaps, if he were placed next to Barbara; but he knew that he could meet her and sit composedly at the same table. He knew also that this meeting had to take place....
Lady Poynter possessed herself of the type-written list and suggested that they should begin without waiting any longer. As he peered at the name-cards, Eric was relieved to find that he was five places away from Barbara, on the same side of the table, between Ivy and Madame Pinto; he was further relieved that he was facing the door so that he would probably see her before she saw him....
As dinner began, his hostess exchanged bewilderment for frank recklessness.
“I do not know half these people,” she confided loudly. “I meet so many. Tell me, Mr. ——,” she reached for powdered sugar and tried without success to read Eric’s name-card, “the woman next to Lord Poynter; who is she?”
“That’s Lady John Carstairs,” Eric answered. “Her husband’s on Lady Maitland’s right; and that’s his mother, the Duchess of Ross, between your husband and Mr. Deganway.”
“Ah, thank you. It is so confusing at first. I have made the most dreadful mistakes through not knowing who every one was.”
“Well, Lady John says she doesn’t yet know her own relations,” Eric answered reassuringly. “She’s an American, you know.”
Madame Pinto rolled her eyes in consternation:
“I did not know. We met at Lady Poynter’s house, and I said terrible things about North America. In my country—Brazil, you know... You are not an American?”