While this badinage went on Trent gazed at the woman with idle curiosity. Her enameled face, penciled eyebrows and generally careful make-up made her look no more than five-and-forty. Her hair was henna-colored, with purple depths in it. She was too heavy for her height and her eyes were bright with the light that comes in cocktail glasses. She had reached the fan-tapping, coquettish, slightly amorous stage. Her bold eyes soon fell on Anthony Trent, who was a far more personable man than Lincoln.
“Who is your good-looking friend?” she demanded.
Lincoln was bound to make the introduction. From his manner Trent imagined he was not overpleased at having to do so.
“Mr. Anthony Trent—the Baroness von Eckstein,” he said.
The Baroness instantly put her bejeweled hand within Trent’s arm.
“I am sure you dance divinely,” she cooed.
Lincoln was a little disappointed at the readiness with which the older man answered.
“If you will dance with me I shall be inspired,” said Trent.
“Very banal,” Lincoln muttered as the two floated away from him.
“I’m so glad to be rescued from Lincoln,” he told her. “He is so earnest and seems to think I have an ambulance in every pocket for him.”