“Are you going?” asked Conrad, jumping up. This reminded her that she had forgotten him.
“Christy,” she said, “I’m sorry. But, Christy, go and bring Charles back here.”
“I certainly shall not,” he said. “What business have I with Charles Saunders?”
“Please, Christy, I want to speak to him.”
“No, I shan’t do it.”
“Very well, I’ll go myself.”
He held her arm. “What do you want to speak to him about?” It seemed to her almost like a snarl.
“Something personal. You shall go.” She eyed him, and he obeyed.
She sat down and tapped a cup impatiently with her finger. Presently a figure emerged from the green curtain. It was Conrad. He crossed the now empty dance-floor at what seemed to her an infinitely slow pace.
“He’s gone,” he said finally.