He came forward to Agatha, who was little less astounded than myself.
“How d'ye do, Lady Durrell? I'm in the stalls with Harry Essendale. I tried to catch your eye, but couldn't. So I thought I'd come up.” He turned to me with frank outstretched hand, “How do, Simon?”
I grasped his hand and murmured something unintelligible. The thing was so extraordinary, so unexpected that my wits went wandering. Dale carried off the situation lightly. It was he who was the man of the world, and I the unresourceful stumbler.
“He's looking ripping, isn't he, Lady Durrell? I met old Oldfield the other day, and he was raving about your case. The thing has never been done before. Says they're going mad over your chap in Paris—they've given him medals and wreaths and decorations till he goes about like a prize bull at a fair. By Jove, it's good to see you again.”
“You might have taken an earlier opportunity,” Agatha remarked with some acidity.
“So I might,” retorted Dale blandly; “but when a man's a born ass it takes him some time to cultivate sense! I've been wanting to see you for a long time, Simon—and to-night I just couldn't resist it. You don't want to kick me out?”
“Heaven forbid,” said I, somewhat brokenly, for the welcome sight of his face and the sound of his voice aroused emotions which even now I do not care to analyse. “It was generous of you to come up.”
He coloured. “Rot!” said he, in his breezy way. “Hallo! The curtain's going up. What's the next item? Oh, those fool dogs!”
“I adore performing dogs!” said Agatha, looking toward the stage.
He turned to me. “Do you?”