A step was heard on the pavement outside; then the click of a
latch-key; a step on the stairs, at the threshold, and Mr. Pilkington
walked in with the air of being the master of the house and everything
in it.

The little laughing mask slipped from Poppy's face, her eyes were two
sapphire crescents darting fright under down-dropped lids. There was a
look in Dicky's face she did not care for. But Rickman--as Maddox had
testified--was a perfect little gentleman when he was drunk, and at
the sight of Pilkington, chivalry, immortal chivalry, leapt in his
heart.

He became suddenly grave, steady and coherent.

"I was just going, Miss Grace. But--if you want me to stay a little
longer, I'll stay."

"You'd better _go_," said Miss Grace.

Her eyes followed him sullenly as he went; so did Pilkington's.

"Well," she said, "I suppose that's what you wanted?"

"Yes, but there's no good overdoing the thing, you know. This," said
Pilkington, "is a damned sight too expensive game for him to play."

"He's all right. It wasn't his fault. I let him drink too much
champagne."