The opposing group broke into laughter. It broke its confines. A tall massive man stood over the two.
“Constance,” he said, “you must hear this.” A thick, foreign accent marred his otherwise perfect English. He was an Austrian: head of the Stegending Galleries on Fifth Avenue where second-rate examples of second-rate old masters fetched first-rate prices. He stood very close to Constance Bardale, who looked askance at him with sly knowledge lighting the flecks in her gray eyes. She seemed to be saying: “So this is the best excuse you could find for breaking into my tête-à-tête? Don’t you see it is hopeless? No, of course, you wouldn’t.”
The Austrian’s sally had its success. It was a breach toward the hostess through which now the others began to flow upon her. The guests shifted near. David remarked how directly Mr. Stegending spoke to Miss Bardale. Unlike himself. But he took comfort in his partial isolation. He rested back in it as he would have in his chair had his self-consciousness not made him crane stiffly forward.
“It was Fennido’s idea,” said Stegending.
“I assure you, Karl, it was Con’s.” Fennido balanced himself with grace. In a half courtesy he thrust out an indicating palm toward his hostess.
“Mine?”
“Now wait.” Richard Fennido rose to his full plump height. David saw how large his buttocks were, like a woman’s: his small blue eyes peered from beside the curved nose like a bird’s. He was poising evidently for his sort of flight—in words.
“I said it was your idea, Constance, and I can prove it.”
A little woman at his side laughed prematurely. Her eyes seemed fixed in a sort of perpetual fright. This was Mrs. May Delano, and her great fear was not to appreciate and not to appear at home. Fennido began.
David found, as he talked, no need of the effort of attention. This Mr. Fennido did not notice him at all. He seemed to hold Constance Bardale with his eyes, the group about him with his shoulders that were curiously sharp above so plump a body. He was done. There was a breaking up. A new shredding of words, a new scramble from which another voice emerged, momently mastered attention, sank away.