hall he found Herbert Ringrose, pacing back and forth, his head bowed and his arms folded across his breast.
Well, here you are at last, was the director's gruff exclamation.
Crossing the room, Ringrose opened the door on the back terrace to call Imperia.
Ambrose backed towards the fire-place to await the inquisition, the verbal onslaught that he could no longer doubt would be aimed in his direction. Mama Starling sank into a chair in a shadowed corner of the room and covered her face with her pudgy, jewelled hands. Herbert Ringrose continued to pace the floor nervously.
The entrance of the star was in keeping with her taste for histrionics. Dressed entirely in black, with earrings and choker of jet, her white face even whiter than usual, she tottered in, supported on the arm of Count Jaime, whose countenance was a proclamation of his antipathy towards Ambrose. Crossing the room until she stood facing the culprit with a look of accusation, she sank into a couch conveniently placed behind her. Standing beside her, Count Jaime softly stroked her hand.
How could you, she began reproachfully, how could you do it?
