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"My dear Peter," she remarked, reprovingly, "a moderate amount of admiration for that very agile young lady I might, perhaps, be inclined to tolerate; but, having watched you for the last quarter of an hour, I am bound to confess that I am becoming jealous." "Of Mademoiselle Celaire?" he asked. "Of Mademoiselle Sophie Celaire." He leaned a little towards her.
What emerged was a good deal like the shy Maurice Korust, who accompanied his brother at the music-hall, but whose distaste for these gatherings had been Andrea's continual lament. The Baron de Grost stepped back once more against the wall. His host was certainly looking dangerous. Mademoiselle Celaire was leaning forward, staring through the gloom with distended eyes.
"But you came as the guest of Mademoiselle Celaire," she reminded him doubtfully, with a faint regretful sigh and a provocative gleam in her eyes. "I saw Mademoiselle Celaire to-night for the first time for years," Peter replied. "I called to see her in her dressing-room, and she claimed me for an escort this evening. I am, alas! a very occasional wanderer in the pleasant paths of Bohemia."
"I suppose I ought to be looking after him," she admitted, rising reluctantly to her feet. "He is a soldier just back from India a General Noseworthy, with all sorts of letters after his name. If Mademoiselle Celaire is generous, perhaps we may have a few minutes' conversation later on," she added, with a parting smile. "Say, rather, if Mademoiselle Korust is kind," De Grost replied, bowing.
Mademoiselle Celaire turned to greet her visitor. "It is a few words I desire with you as quickly as possible, if you please, Monsieur le Baron," she said, advancing towards him. "Listen." She had brushed out her hair, and it hung from her head straight and a little stiff, almost like the hair of an Indian woman. She had washed her face free of all cosmetics, and her pallor was almost waxen.
"It depends upon that only." He strolled across the room and rejoined Mademoiselle Celaire a few moments later. They stood apart in a corner. "I should like my supper," Peter declared. "They wait for one more guest," Mademoiselle Celaire announced. "One more guest! Do you know who it is?" "No idea," she answered. "One would imagine that it was someone of importance.
Mademoiselle Celaire was a clever woman, and she had never felt so hopelessly at fault. Illumination was to come, however illumination, dramatic and complete. The seventh and last of these famous supper parties was in full swing. Notwithstanding the shaded candles, which left the faces of the guests a little indistinct, the scene was a brilliant one.
Hence this evening at a music-hall, which Peter, for his part, was finding thoroughly amusing. The place was packed some said owing to the engagement of Andrea Korust and his brother, others to the presence of Mademoiselle Sophie Celaire in her wonderful Danse des Apaches. The violinist that night had a great reception.
Afterward came the turn which, notwithstanding the furore caused by Andrea Korust's appearance, was generally considered to be equally responsible for the packed house the Apache dance of Mademoiselle Sophie Celaire. Peter sat slightly forward in his chair as the curtain went up. For a time he seemed utterly absorbed by the performance. Violet glanced at him once or twice curiously.
She paused. He leaned a little towards her. She was looking intently at a ring upon her finger. "If you would really like to see me," she whispered, "and if you are sure that Mademoiselle Celaire would not object, could you not ask me to tea to-morrow or the next day?" "To-morrow," Peter insisted, with a becoming show of eagerness. "Shall we say at the Carlton at five?" She hesitated.
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