The revue had reached its seventh scene before Beryl and her escort
were shown into the big stage box of the Pavilion. She had hardly
taken her seat before she saw a familiar face in the stalls.
"Isn't that Mr. Moropulos?" she asked, and following the direction of
her eyes he nodded. The Greek did not appear to have noticed them.
He was conspicuous as being the only man in that row of the stalls
who was not wearing evening dress.
"Yes, that is Moropulos. Don't let him see you, Beryl."
Apparently Mr. Moropulos did not identify the pair, for though he
turned his head in their direction he showed no sign of recognition.
Half-way through the last part of the revue, he disappeared and they
did not see him again.
"And now home. It has been a jolly afternoon and evening," said
Beryl as they came out.
Ronnie was looking round for his car. "What a fool I am," he said.
"I told Parker not to wait--for some extraordinary reason I imagined
your car would be here. We'll have to take a taxi."
The cab had hardly started before he tapped at the window and leaning
out, gave a fresh direction.
"Come home and have some supper. I've just remembered that I told
François I was bringing a couple of men home--told him early this
morning."
She hesitated. "I can't stay very long," she said. "No--nobody is
waiting up for me. My maid never does--it spoils my enjoyment of a
dance if I think that I am keeping some poor girl out of her bed.
I'll come in for five minutes, dear."
His arm came round her, her head drooped toward him. "Ronnie--I'm so
glad all this has come about, darling--I've run after you--I know I
have. But I don't care--four years seems such an awful long time to
wait."
"An eternity," he breathed.
"And marriage is, as you say--in your immoral way--only a third party
sanction--it is silly." He kissed her. An automatic lift carried
them to the third floor and Ronnie went in switching on the lights.
"I wonder whether father will be angry," she asked, "if your man--"
"He sleeps out," Ronnie helped her off with her wrap. "He's never
here after nine. This is my own room, Beryl--but you saw it when the
doctor brought you here to dinner."
She walked over to the big black table and sat down.
"Here genius broods," she laughed quietly, "what a humbug you are,
Ronnie! I don't believe you write a thousand words a month!"
He smiled indulgently.
"And there is your wicked Anthony! He looks worse by artificial
light. Now, Ronnie, I really must go."
"Go?" incredulously, "with foie-gras sandwiches and a beautifully dry
wine--?"
The door into the dining-room was open and he pointed.
"It is the last bottle of that wine. Jerry will be furious when he
comes to breakfast in the morning and finds it gone."
Ronnie had a friend, one Jeremiah Talbot, a man after his own heart.
Beryl had met him once, a languid loose-lipped man with a reputation
for gallantry.
"Well--I'll eat just a little--and then you must take me home. You
shouldn't have paid off the cab."
He was too busy at the wine bucket to listen. She sat on the edge of
one of the window chesterfields and let her eyes rove around the
room, and after a while he brought a plate and a filled glass.
She put her lips to the wine and handed it back to him. "No more,
dear."
A sudden panic had taken possession of her, and she was shaking.
"No--!" And yet it was so natural and so comforting to let him hold
her. She relaxed, unresisting.
"I shouldn't be here, Ronnie," she murmured between his kisses, "let
me go, darling--please." But he held her the tighter and she did not
deny his greedy lips.