He was impatient. "The whole thing is monstrous. You know it, and I know it. And you are too good for this sort of thing."
He saw her face change. "Hush, Neale is looking for me."
Meriweather's glance followed hers. At the other end of the long room, in an archway from which hung a priceless silver lamp, stood Winslow in white brocade. His white wig swept down on each side of his pale face. Even at that distance, they caught the glitter of his diamonds.
He saw them and spoke across the intervening space. "Were you looking at my treasures?"
Sally told him the truth. "We were talking."
Merry commended her frankness. The thing which would help her in her dealings with her lover was her lack of fear of him.
"It is time to go down to supper," Winslow said, "I've been searching for you everywhere."
Sally tucked her arm through his. "I tore my flounce and had to have it mended. Then Merry and I came here and sat in your Florentine seat, and looked at your horrid little Bacchus."
"What makes you call him horrid?" Winslow demanded.
"Because he laughs at life," Sally told him, "and it isn't a thing to laugh at. It is a thing to cry about, and if your little Bacchus had any sense, he'd know it."
At supper, Meriweather sat beside Hildegarde, but he might have been miles away for all the chance he got to talk to her. Other men kept coming up—Bob Gresham among them—the slight, girlish-looking
