“Because he is one of the dramatis persona in a pretty little comedy on which the curtain is not yet rung down.”
She greatly dared. “Are you too in the caste?”
Theodore Weever deliberately helped himself to fish before replying. Then with equal deliberation he stared into her flushed and puzzled face.
“I hope so. A leading part, perhaps, if you are the clever and conscientious woman I take you to be.”
“What part has my cousin Morland played?” she asked.
“I must leave you the very simple task of guessing,” said Weever; and he took advantage of her consternation to converse with his left-hand neighbour.
“I have painted a peculiarly successful fan, dear Mrs. Deering,” said Colonel Pawley, in his purring voice. “A wedding-present for our dear Miss Hardacre. I have never been so much pleased with anything before. I should like you to see it. When may I come and show it you?”
“The wedding is fixed for two o'clock on Wednesday,” said Connie, answering like a woman in a dream. The bright room, the crowd of diners, the music, the voice of the old man by her side, all faded from her senses, eclipsed by the ghastly light that dawned upon her. Only one meaning could be attached to Weever's insinuations. A touch on the arm brought her back to her surroundings with a start. It was Colonel Pawley.
“I hope there is nothing—” he began, in a tone of great concern.
“No, nothing. Really nothing. Do forgive me,” she interrupted in confusion. “You were telling me something. Oh, I'm dreadfully sorry.”