It was a merry little supper-party. Guy Haviland kept the table going with his clever wit; he was a past-master in the art of entertaining. Although the evening had been a trying one, Celia did not seem to be fatigued. She enjoyed being made much of—what girl does not?—and her face glowed with happy excitement as she responded to the congratulations of her admirers.
Her brother felt like the death’s-head at the feast. Had Celia been less excited, she could not have failed to notice his unwonted moodiness. Mrs. Potter Wemyss made several efforts to sustain a conversation, but finally despairing of eliciting any but monosyllabic answers, left him to himself. His brain was in a whirl; he could not eat, nor could he speak. All he could do was to stare straight in front of him and marvel at the irony of fate. He had not caught the name of the woman to whom he had been reintroduced; he did not know in what guise she posed or how she came to be an honoured guest at Haviland’s table. It was enough for him that she was there; and being there, claimed recognition.
She confined her conversation principally to her partner, with whom she seemed to be on terms of intimacy. Several times, however, she turned towards the artist with a “Do you remember such and such a thing in Paris?” or, “We had delightful times in those old student-days, didn’t we, Mr. Karne?”
Herbert was amazed at her coolness, being unaware that on her part the meeting with himself had been anticipated. He was completely staggered, too, at the metamorphosis which had taken place in her. He had always credited her with being arrogantly clever, but how in those twelve years she had managed to transform herself from a rank Bohemian into a conventional society lady was more than even he could understand. Judging by the smiling bows of recognition which passed between herself and others who were supping at the Carlton, she was well known: that she had been in the company of Lord Bexley all the evening was in itself sufficient guarantee as to her social standing.
Not until the guests were dispersing did he get an opportunity of speaking to her alone; and then it was only for a second. She was standing in the vestibule, having just said good night to some friends whilst her cavalier went to see after her carriage. Herbert approached, and, with a gesture, drew her aside.
“Ninette!” he exclaimed; and then again, “Ninette!”
She smiled the slow tortuous smile he knew so well of old.
“Not ‘Ninette’ in England,” was her laconic answer.
“I must speak to you,” he said hurriedly, noticing that in spite of the difference in her age and position she was little changed. “Where can I see you, and at what hour? I must have an explanation.”
She drew herself up with dignity. “There is no ‘must’ where I am concerned,” she replied haughtily. “But if you care to call and see me to-morrow, I shall be at home. Here is my card.”