"
The Sparrow gave a little hop of satisfaction.
"Right. That'll do famously."
So the Cassowary went back to the table and laid her hand on Joyselle's
sleeve. "I have put you at another table, M. Joyselle. You go to the
boudoir balcony--Sophy will take you there--so it's all right. I must go
and find Billy Vere now. Oh----" turning, she found herself face to face
with Brigit Mead, who had just arrived.
"I say, Brigit, would you mind sitting at the table with M. Joyselle?
Eugene Struther is your man, and M. Joyselle objects to his table
because it is number thirteen."
Brigit, shaking hands with her enthusiastic hostess, caught Joyselle's
eye. He had heard.
"Mind? Not a bit," she answered carelessly, "if he doesn't."
Mrs. Newlyn turned, to find the top of Joyselle's head presented to her
in a bow of mockly-resigned acquiescence. "Then, _that's_ all right.
What's the matter, Oliver?"
Lord Oliver Maytopp, a cherished clown in that section of society in
which the Newlyns had their being, was making believe to cry, his large
mouth opened grotesquely, his fists digging into his eyes.
"I d--don't want to sit at the table next Meg's," he sobbed, "when I
tell funny stories she always--makes faces at me.
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