of its own, and her orange lips smiled invitingly at Derek Kettering.
He kissed her, and flung himself into a chair.
‘What have you been doing with yourself ? Just got up, I suppose?’
The orange mouth widened into a long smile.
‘No,’ said the dancer. ‘I have been at work.’
She flung out a long, pale hand towards the piano, which was littered with untidy music scores.
‘Ambrose has been here. He has been playing me the new Opera.’
Kettering nodded without paying much attention. He was profoundly uninterested in Claud Ambrose and the latter’s operatic setting of Ibsen’s Peer Gynt. So was Mirelle, for that matter, regarding it merely as a unique opportunity for her own presentation as Anitra.
‘It is a marvellous dance,’ she murmured. ‘I shall put all the passion of the desert into it. I shall dance hung over with jewels—ah! and, by the way, mon ami, there is a pearl that I saw yesterday in Bond Street—a black pearl.’
She paused, looking at him invitingly.
‘My dear girl,’ said Kettering, ‘it’s no use talking of black pearls to me. At the present minute, as far as I am concerned, the fat is in the fire.’
She was quick to respond to his tone. She sat up, her big black eyes widening.
‘What is that you say, Dereek? What has happened?’
‘My esteemed father-in-law,’ said Kettering, ‘is preparing to go off the deep end.’
‘Eh?’
‘In other words, he wants Ruth to divorce me.’
‘How stupid!’ said Mirelle. ‘Why should she want to divorce you?’
Derek Kettering grinned.
‘Mainly because of you, chérie!’ he said.
Mirelle shrugged her shoulders.
‘That is foolish,’ she observed in a matter-of-fact voice.
‘Very foolish,’ agreed Derek.
‘What are you going to do about it?’ demanded Mirelle.
‘My dear girl, what can I do? On the one side, the man with unlimited money; on the other side, the man with unlimited debts. There is no question as to who will come out on top.’
‘They are extraordinary, these Americans,’ commented Mirelle. ‘It is not as though your wife were fond of you.’
‘Well,’ said Derek, ‘what are we going to do about it?’
She looked at him inquiringly. He came over and took both her hands in his.
‘Are you going to stick to me?’
‘What do you mean? After—?’
‘Yes,’ said Kettering. ‘After, when the creditors come down like wolves on the fold. I am damned fond of you, Mirelle; are you going to let me down?’
She pulled her hands away from him.
‘You know I adore you, Dereek.’
He caught the note of evasion in her voice.
‘So that’s that, is it? The rats will leave the sinking ship.’
‘Ah, Dereek!’
‘Out with it,’ he said violently. ‘You will fling me over; is that it?’
She shrugged her shoulders.
‘I am very fond of you, mon ami—indeed I am fond of you. You are very charming—un beau garçon, but ce n’est pas pratique.’
‘You are a rich man’s luxury, eh? Is that it?’
‘If you like to put it that way.’
She leaned back on the cushions, her head flung back.
‘All the same, I am fond of you, Dereek.’
He went over to the window and stood there some time looking out, with his back to her. Presently the dancer raised herself on her elbow and stared at him curiously.
‘What are you thinking of, mon ami?’
He grinned at her over his shoulder, a curious grin, that made her vaguely uneasy.
‘As it happened, I was thinking of a woman, my dear.’
‘A woman, eh?’
Mirelle pounced on something that she could understand.
‘You are thinking of some other woman, is that it?’
‘Oh, you needn’t worry; it is purely a fancy portrait. “Portrait of a lady with grey eyes”.’
Mirelle said sharply, ‘When did you meet her?’
Derek Kettering laughed, and his laughter had a mocking, ironical sound.
‘I ran into the lady in the corridor of the Savoy Hotel.’
‘Well! What did she say?’
‘As far as I can remember, I said “I beg your pardon,” and she said, “It doesn’t matter,” or words to that effect.’
‘And then?’ persisted the dancer.
Kettering shrugged his shoulders.
‘And then—nothing. That was the end of the incident.’
‘I don’t understand a word of what you are talking about,’ declared the dancer.
‘Portrait of a lady with grey eyes,’ murmured Derek reflectively. ‘Just as well I am never likely to meet her again.’
‘Why?’
‘She might bring me bad luck. Women do.’
Mirelle slipped quietly from her couch, and came across to him, laying one long, snake-like arm round his neck.
‘You are foolish, Dereek,’ she murmured. ‘You are very foolish. You are beau garçon, and I adore you, but I am not made to be poor—no, decidedly I am not made to be poor. Now listen to me; everything is very simple. You must make it up with your wife.’
‘I am afraid that’s not going to be actually in the sphere of practical politics,’ said Derek drily.
‘How do you say? I do not understand.’
‘Van Aldin, my dear, is not taking
