"To tell a woman she is lovely is to criticise her openly to her face.

Please do not make such a careful perusal of my expression."

"Unfortunately I am endowed with the critical faculty."

The very intonation of Quinton's voice is a caress.

His eyes seem to reveal, as they gaze on her, their power of insight and a.n.a.lysis. Their look is appreciation, their sympathy with her every utterance boundless.

To him she is not only a character study, but a woman to love, to worship, for a day, an hour.

To her he is an object of fascination, an accomplished man of the world, one who can make himself utterly irresistible by reason of his tenderness, chivalry, courtesy, and devotion.

A magnetic attraction rises between them. Eleanor forgets her surroundings. She only remembers him.

At last her eyes fall on the door, and remain transfixed in that direction.

Giddy Mounteagle, in a costume of wide black and white stripes and leopard's skin cloak, followed by her youthful _fiance_, enters the restaurant.

"Bad luck!" exclaims Eleanor, turning to Carol; "look!"

He re-echoes her deep sigh as Giddy advances.

"I hate her seeing me here with you," Mrs. Roche declares. "She is a bad enemy, and now that we are hardly on speaking terms I dare not think what horrible stories she may not spread against me."

"Why not make it up, for the sake of our friendship, Eleanor? She could often help us to meet, you know."

"Never, after the way she treated me!" declares Mrs. Roche, drawing herself up as Mrs. Mounteagle approaches.

"Hulloa! _you_ here?" she cries in a rather bantering, insolent tone, and raising her finely pencilled eyebrows till they are lost to view under her fringe. She pats Carol playfully on the shoulder, pretending not to notice the stiffness of Eleanor's bow.

Bertie shakes hands with Mrs. Roche, and they seat themselves at the next table.

Eleanor turns her back, and becomes deeply interested in what Carol is telling her. They talk loudly on politics for Giddy's benefit.

"How spiteful she looked," whispers Eleanor at last.

"Oh, I don't know. You see you gave her the cold shoulder a bit."

"Do you think she noticed it?"

"Rather. She is as sharp as a needle."

"I think her hat is atrocious. It makes me tremble when I remember how I relied on her taste. Those enormous black and white feathers, pinned in crazy fashion with paste brooches, are horribly vulgar."

"Do you see that red-headed man just coming in?" says Carol.

"Yes. Who is he?"

"Eccott--a tremendously wealthy man, and a great financier. I expect your husband knows him."

"Eccott--why, of course! I have often heard Philip speak of him. The name is quite familiar to me, and now I come to think of it he is living here at the Savoy. Philip often dines with him."

"And lunches?" asks Quinton hastily.

Eccott is speaking to the head waiter, and evidently looking for a friend.

Eleanor can see down the long pa.s.sage. Suddenly her heart sinks; the palms of her hands grow cold.

"Philip is there!" she says under her breath.

"What will you do?" whispers Quinton.

"I--I don't know."

"Tell Giddy," he urges; "make the quarrel up now, take her into your confidence, pretend you are together."

"Place myself in her hands? Oh, Carol, it would be too humiliating!"

Involuntarily she calls him by his Christian name.

"Self-justification is so embarra.s.sing and unsatisfactory, and some excuse must be made for our appearing here together, unless you take my advice. He has not seen you yet, there is still time."

Thus Quinton urges the unwilling Eleanor to follow his suggestion.

"But I can't," she declares, half-crying. "What will Giddy think of me? What will she say?"

"Shall I speak to her for you?"

"Oh! if you only would."

Philip is still talking outside in the pa.s.sage to Mr. Eccott. Carol rises, leans over the back of Mrs. Mounteagle's chair whispering hurriedly:

"Philip Roche is here. I don't want him to see his wife with me. Take her under your wing. I will make it worth your while."

Giddy takes the cue instantly. Such compromising situations are not new to her. She is a Machiavelli in petticoats.

"Here, Bertie," she says, "slip into Eleanor's chair, and stop at that table with Mr. Quinton."

She turns, smiles benignly upon Mrs. Roche, and motions her to take the empty seat.

"There, my dear," she murmurs, as Eleanor, confused and ashamed, obeys.

"Let bygones be bygones, you are with me to-day. I brought you up to town."

"No, you met me by chance at Madame Faustine's, and we came on here together. Oh! Giddy, how good you are."

"A friend in need, eh? Finish Bertie's fruit salad. Good gracious, you are drinking whiskey and soda. Pa.s.s me his gla.s.s, it won't matter for me."

Eleanor hands it over with trembling fingers.