Archer looked at her perplexedly, wondering
if it were lightness or dissimulation that enabled her
to touch so easily on the past at the very moment when
she was risking her reputation in order to break with it.
"I do think," she went on, addressing both men,
"that the imprevu adds to one's enjoyment. It's perhaps
a mistake to see the same people every day."
"It's confoundedly dull, anyhow; New York is dying
of dullness," Beaufort grumbled. "And when I try to
liven it up for you, you go back on me. Come--think
better of it! Sunday is your last chance, for Campanini
leaves next week for Baltimore and Philadelphia; and
I've a private room, and a Steinway, and they'll sing all
night for me."
"How delicious! May I think it over, and write to
you tomorrow morning?"
She spoke amiably, yet with the least hint of
dismissal in her voice. Beaufort evidently felt it, and being
unused to dismissals, stood staring at her with an obstinate
line between his eyes.
"Why not now?"
"It's too serious a question to decide at this late
hour."
"Do you call it late?"
She returned his glance coolly. "Yes; because I have
still to talk business with Mr. Archer for a little while."
"Ah," Beaufort snapped. There was no appeal from
her tone, and with a slight shrug he recovered his
composure, took her hand, which he kissed with a
practised air, and calling out from the threshold: "I
say, Newland, if you can persuade the Countess to stop
in town of course you're included in the supper," left
the room with his heavy important step.
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