Lavinia King was flooded with a sudden causeless anger. She plucked her
pianist by the arm, and drew him to the window-seat.
Rumour accused Lavinia of too close intimacy with the musician: and rumour
does not always lie. She took advantage of the situation to caress him. Monet-
Knott, for that was his name, took her action as a matter of course. Her
passion satisfied alike his purse and his vanity; and, being without
temperament — he was the curate type of ladies' man — he suited the dancer,
who would have found a more masterful lover in her way. This creature
could not even excite the jealousy of the wealthy automobile manufacturer
who financed her.
But this night she could not concentrate her thoughts upon him; they
wandered continually to the man on the floor. "Who is he?" she whispered,
rather fiercely, "what did you say his name was?" "Cyril Grey," answered
Monet-Knott, indifferently; "he's probably the greatest man in England, in his
art." "And what's his art?" "Nobody knows," was the surprising reply, "he
won't show anything. He's the one big mystery of London." "I never heard
such nonsense," retorted the dancer, angrily; "anyhow, I'm from Missouri!"
The pianist stared. [15] "I mean you've got to show me," she explained; "he
looks to me like One Big Bluff! "Monet-Knott shrugged his shoulders; he did
not care to pursue that topic.
Suddenly Big Ben struck midnight. It woke the room to normality. Cyril
Grey unwound himself, like a snake after six months' sleep; but in a moment
he was a normal suave gentleman, all smiles and bows again. He thanked
Miss King for a very pleasant evening; he only tore himself away from a
consideration of the lateness of the hour—
"Do come again!" said Lavinia sarcastically, "one doesn't often enjoy so
delightful a conversation."
"My birthday's over," moaned Lisa from the floor, "and I haven't got my
thirteenth present."
Amy Brough half woke up. "It's something to do with a large building," she
began and broke off suddenly, abashed, she knew not why.