He sent her a reply by hand that he would call at the hotel at half-past eleven, after she had finished her performance at the theatre.
Punctually at that hour a page-boy took him up in the lift, and passing along a corridor they halted at a door.
The page rapped, whereupon it opened, and next second the tall, handsome Spanish woman in a wonderful evening gown flew into Hubert’s arms crying in Spanish in wild glee:
“Ah! At last, my own dear Hubert—at last! What pleasure!”
But he only took her hand, and bowing low with grave courtliness, kissed it.
“Come, sit down,” she urged, pulling him towards a soft settee. “Tell me, when did you arrive from Egypt? The Duke saw the arrival in the paper this morning, and told me.”
“Then the Duke is still here,” he asked with affected unconcern.
“Of course. Why? He knows your English quite well, and, alas! I do not. Oh, it is so difficult! What I should do without him, I don’t know,” she went on volubly with much gesticulation. Those great dark eyes of hers and her raven-black hair gave a wonderful vivacity to her handsome Andalusian countenance. Her portraits were in all the illustrated papers, and during the day he had learnt how, by her wonderful dancing, she had taken London by storm.
“And what kind of reception have you had?” he asked gravely in Spanish, as he seated himself upon the settee before her.
“Superb!” she declared, her great eyes brightening. “Your English audiences are so intensely sympathetic. I love London. I think I dance better here in your cold, foggy city than in Madrid. Why, I do not know. Perhaps it is because I feel somehow at home with the English—because you, Hubert, are my dear friend.” And then she chattered on with hands and arms thrown about in quick gesticulation, describing to him her life during the past three weeks, and how full of gaiety and enjoyment had every moment been.