She shivered in his hold, but she clung to him.  “I don’t feel like—­a permanent institution,” she told him rather piteously.  “And when you are angry—­”

“I am not angry,” said Saltash, and tweaked her ear as though she had been a boy.  “But—­whether you feel like it or not—­you are my wife, and you have got to play the part. C’est entendu, n’est-ce-pas?”

“Whatever you wish,” said Toby faintly.

He set her free.  “You must look your best tonight.  Wear blue!  It is your colour.  I shall present Spentoli to you.  And tomorrow he will want to paint you.”

Toby stiffened.  “That—­canaille!” she said.

He looked at her in surprise.  “What is the matter with you tonight,
Nonette?  You are hating all the world.”

Her blue eyes blazed.  “I don’t want to meet Spentoli,” she said.  “He has an evil eye.  You—­you—­I look to you to—­to—­to protect me.”

“My good child!” said Saltash.

He turned aside to light a cigarette, and there was a pause.  But Toby still stood rigid, as it were on guard.  He spoke again after a moment, and his voice was kind though it had a certain dominant quality also.

“Nonette, you need not be afraid when you are with me.  I shall protect you.  Now go and dress!  When you are ready, come to me for inspection!  And remember!  You are to look your best tonight.”

He turned with the last words and looked at her.  His brows went up as he realized her attitude—­the tense resistance of the slight figure withstanding him.

But it was only for a moment or two that the girl maintained her stand.  At sight of the look that leaped to his eyes, her own were swiftly lowered.  She drew back from him.

“I will do—­whatever you wish,” she said again nervously.  “You know that.”

“Yes, I know that,” said Saltash with his quick grimace.  “You have my sympathy, Nonette.  Now go, ma chere, go!”

She went from his presence like a small hunted animal.

Saltash shrugged his shoulders and sauntered down again to the vestibule.  The crowd had grown.  They were watching the great entrance-door expectantly for the coming of the celebrated dancer.  Saltash called for a drink, and mingled with the throng.

The Italian, Spentoli, came up presently and joined him.  “I am hoping,” he said, “that you will presently give me the great honour of presenting me to your bride.”

Saltash looked at him.  Spentoli was one of the very few men for whom he entertained respect.  The Italian’s work had always held an immense attraction for his artistic soul, and he had never troubled to disguise the fact.

“My wife is young and shy,” he said, after a moment.  “I will present you—­some day, Spentoli, but it may not be yet.”

“This is her first visit to Paris?” questioned Spentoli.

“Not her first.  But she does not know Paris well.”  Saltash spoke carelessly.  “I am not showing her everything at once.  I think that is a mistake.”