Part 95 (1/2)

Beryl had spoken of ”a living bronze.”

Craven was speaking to her again. She forced herself to reply to him, though she scarcely knew what she was saying. She saw a look of surprise in the eyes which he fixed on her.

”Isn't it getting very hot?” she said quickly.

”It is rather hot. Shall I ask them to open the window a little? But it is just behind you.”

”It doesn't matter. I have brought my fan.”

She picked the fan up and began to use it unsteadily.

”The room is so very crowded to-night,” she murmured.

”Yes. No wonder with such cooking. Here is the Zabaione.”

The waitress put two large gla.s.ses before them filled with the thick yellow custard, then brought them a plate of biscuits.

Lady Sellingworth laid down the fan and picked up her spoon. She must eat. But she did not know how she was going to force herself to do it.

Although she kept on saying to herself: ”It's impossible!” she could not get rid of the horrible suspicion which had a.s.sailed her. On the contrary, it seemed to grow in her till it was almost a conviction.

She tried to eat tranquilly. She praised the Zabaione. She sipped her Chianti Rosso. But she tasted nothing, and when the musicians struck up another melody she did not know what they were playing.

”Are you tired of it?”

Craven had spoken to her.

”Of what?” she asked, as if almost startled.

”That--Santa Lucia?”

”Oh--is it?”

He looked astonished.

”Oh--yes, I must say I am rather sick of it!” she said quickly.

She laid down her spoon.

”Don't you like the Zabaione?”

”Yes, it's delicious. But I have had enough. You ordered such a very good dinner!”

She began to use her fan again. The noise of voices in the room was becoming like the noise of voices in a nightmare. She was longing to confirm or banish her suspicion by a long look at Beryl's companion.

She felt sure now that if she looked again at Arabian she would be absolutely certain, even from a distance, whether he was or was not the man who had brought about the robbery of her jewels at the Gard du Nord ten years ago. Her mind was fully awake now, and she would be able to see. But, knowing that, she did not dare to look towards Arabian. She was miserable in her uncertainty, but she was afraid of having her horrible suspicion confirmed. She was a coward at that moment, and she knew it.

Craven finished his Zabaione and put down his spoon. They had not ordered another course. The dinner was over. But they had not had their coffee yet, and he asked for it.

”Are you going to smoke a Toscana?” she said, forcing herself to smile.

”Yes, I think I will. Do let me give you a cigarette.”