Chauvelin was taking no further heed of her. He had said his cruel "Either--or--" and left her to decide. He, in his turn now, appeared to be absorbed in the sour-stirring melodies of ORPHEUS, and was beating time to the music with his sharp, ferret-like head.
A discreet rap at the door roused Marguerite from her thoughts. It was Sir Percy Blakeney, tall, sleepy, good-humoured, and wearing that half-shy, half-inane smile, which just now seemed to irritate her every nerve.
"Er. . .your chair is outside. . .m'dear," he said, with his most exasperating drawl, "I suppose you will want to go to that demmed ball. . . . Excuse me--er--Monsieur Chauvelin--I had not observed you. . . ."He extended two slender, white fingers toward Chauvelin, who had risen when Sir Percy entered the box.
"Are you coming, m'dear?"
