A CHANGE OF ATMOSPHERE
Miss Joan Gaymersat in a Windsor chair on the landing outside the bathroom door at Manors. It was half-past eight in the morning—an hour when traffic outside bathroom doors is apt to be congested.
Miss Gaymer was wrapped in a bluish-grey kimono, which, whether by accident or design,—I fear there is very little doubt about it, really,—exactly matched the colour of her eyes. At the same time it failed to conceal the fact—horresco referens—that she was still attired in what American haberdashers call "slumber-wear." Her slim bare feet were encased in red slippers, one of which dangled precariously from her right big toe, and her hair hung down her back in two tightly screwed but not unbecoming pigtails. At present she was engaged in a heated altercation with two gentlemen for right of entry into the bathroom.
The only excuse that I can offer for her conduct is that, although she was nearly twenty-one, in her present setting she looked about fourteen.
The gentlemen, who wore large hairy dressing-gowns,with towels swathed round their necks and mighty sponges in their hands, did not, it must be confessed, show to such advantage as their opponent. They were distinctly tousled and gummy in appearance, and their wits, as is usual with the male sex early in the morning, were in no condition for rapier work. They had both been patiently awaiting their turn for the bath when Joan arrived, and they were now listening in helpless indignation to a peremptory order to return to their rooms and stay there till sent for, and not to molest an unprotected female on her way to her ablutions.
"But look here, Joey," said one,—he was a pleasant-faced youth of about nineteen,—"we werebothhere before you; and you know we arranged last night that you were to come at twenty past—"
"Binks," commanded the offender in the Windsor chair, "go straight back to your bedroom and don't argue with me. If you are good I'll give your door a tap on my way back."
But Binks was in no mood for compromise, and furthermore wanted his breakfast.
"It's not playing the game," he grumbled; "I was here first, Cherub was second—"
"Whoisn't playing the game?" flashed out Miss Gaymer. "Have youshaved, Binks?"
Binks, taken in flank, admitted the impeachment,—which,it may be mentioned, was self-evident. "You haven't, either," was the best retort he could make.
"No, but I've brushed my teeth," said the ever-ready Miss Gaymer.
"Well," pursued Binks desperately, "you haven't done your hair."
"My lad," replied his opponent frankly, "if you were a woman and had to put things on over your head, you wouldn't have done your hair either."
Binks, utterly demoralised, fell out of the fighting line.
"Joey,I'veshaved," murmured the second gentleman in a deprecating voice.
Miss Gaymer turned a surprised eye upon him.
"Why, Cherub, dear?" she inquired.
"Cherub," who was still of an age to be exceedingly sensitive on the subject of his manly growth, blushed deeply and subsided. But his companion was made of sterner stuff.
"Come along, Cherub!" he said. "Let's run her into her bedroom and lock her in until we've bathed. Hang it! It's the third time she's done it this week."
"Lay one finger on me, children," proclaimed Miss Gaymer, "and I'll never speak to either of you again!"
She made ready for battle by twining her feetin and out of the legs of the Windsor chair, and sat brandishing a loofah, the picture of outraged propriety.
Her heartless opponents advanced to the attack, and seizing the arms of the chair bore it swiftly, occupant and all, down the passage. Joan, utterly unprepared for these tactics, was at first too taken aback to do anything but shriek and wield the loofah; but shortly recovering her presence of mind, she slipped off the seat, and, doubling round her bearers, who were hampered by the chair, scampered back towards the bathroom—only to run heavily into the arms of an unyielding, sunburned, and highly embarrassed gentleman, who had been standing nervously on the other side of the door of that apartment for the last five minutes, awaiting an opportunity to escape, and had suddenly emerged therefrom on a dash to his bedroom, under the perfectly correct impression that it was a case of now or never.
"Oh, Ibegyour—Why, it's Hughie!" cried Joan. "Yes, itreallyis!"
They recoiled, and stood surveying each other. It was their first meeting. Hughie, owing to a breakdown on the branch line, had arrived late the night before, after the ladies had gone to bed. Joan and he had not set eyes on each other for nine years.
Miss Gaymer recovered her equanimity first.
"You're not a bit changed, Hughie," she observed with a disarming smile. "A little browner—that's all. Am I?"
Hughie did not answer for a moment. He was genuinely astonished at what he had just seen, and not a little shocked. Where young girls are concerned, there is no greater stickler for propriety than your man of the world; and this sudden instance of the latter-daycamaraderieof young men and maidens had rather taken Hughie's breath away. He felt almost as fluttered as an early Victorian matron. Suddenly he realised that he had been asked a question.
"Changed?" he said haltingly. "Well, it's rather hard to say, until—until—"
"Until I've got my hair up and more clothes on?" suggested Miss Gaymer. "Perhaps you're right. Still, I look rather nice, don't you think?" she added modestly, preening herself in the kimono. "However, you'll see me at breakfast. Meanwhile I want you to hold those two boys back while I get into the bathroom. Ta-ta, dears!"
And with an airy wave of her hand to the unwashed and discomfited firm of Dicky and Cherub, who stood grinning sheepishly in the background, Hughie's ward slipped under her guardian's arm and disappeared into the bathroom, with a swish of cærulean drapery and a triumphant banging of the door.
Half an hour later Hughie descended to breakfast, there to be greeted by his host, Jack Leroy, a retired warrior of thirty-eight, of comfortable exterior and incurable laziness, and his wife, the one-time render of Hughie's heart-strings in the person of Miss Mildred Freshwater. Another old friend was the Reverend Montague D'Arcy, whom we last saw dancing the Cachuca by the waters of the Cam. Here he was, a trifle more rotund and wearing Archidiaconal gaiters, but still the twinkling-eyed D'Arcy of old. One or two other guests were seated at the table, but as yet there was no sign of Joey. When she did appear, it was in a riding-habit; and after a hearty meal, in no way accelerated by urgent and outspoken messages from the front door, where her swains were smoking the pipe of patience, she dashed off in a manner which caused most of those who were over-eating themselves round the table to refer enviously to the digestive equipment of the young, and left Hughie to be entertained by his host and hostess.
"You'll find her a queer handful, Hughie," said Mrs. Leroy, as she sat placidly embroidering an infantine garment in the morning sun on the verandah,—in the corner of which the current issues of the "Spectator" and "Sporting Life," fully unfurled, together with two pairs of perpendicularboot-soles and a cloud of cigar-smoke, proclaimed the fact that the Army and the Church were taking their ease together,—"but I want you to remember all the time that she issound. You'll be tempted to disbelieve that over and over again, but don't! She has been utterly spoiled by everybody, and you must give her time to find her level again. Left to herself, she would be as good as gold. I don't say she wouldn't do something ratheroutrénow and then from sheer animal spirits, but that doesn't count. She's young, of course, so she can't—she can't be expected to—you know what I mean?"
"Stand corn," remarked a voice from behind the "Sporting Life."
"Thank you, dear: that's just it. You see, Hughie, men egg her on,—they're all alike: Jack and Mr. D'Arcy are as bad as any,—and she gets excited and carried away, and occasionally she does something stupid and conspicuous. Five minutes later she is bitterly ashamed, and comes and cries her heart out to me. People know nothing aboutthat, of course: all they do know is that she did the stupid thing, and they call her a forward little cat and a detestable imp. Don't you believe them, Hughie!
"Then you'll find her absurdly impulsive and generous: you could have the clothes off her back if you wanted them. The other day shecame home in floods of tears because of a story which a beggar-woman with a baby had told her. It was the usual sort of story, but it was quite enough for Joey. She had carried the baby herself for about two miles, and given the mother all the money she had, and made her promise faithfully to come and see me next day. Of course the woman never turned up, and Joey's blouse had to be burned,—oh, that baby!—but that sort of thing doesn't alter her faith in human nature. And she stands thegreattest, Hughie. She hasn't got one set of manners when men are about and another when they are not. But she's a kittle creature. You must be tender with her, and—"
"Run her on the snaffle, old man—what?" corroborated the "Sporting Life."
Hughie blew through his pipe meditatively.
"Seems to me, Mrs. Leroy," he said at length, "that I'm in for a pretty thick time. Do you think she's at all likely to take to my present methods, or must I learn some new tricks? Afraid I'm not much of a lady's man. Still, Joey and I used to be great friends, once. Won't that count for something?"
"I'm not sure," said Mrs. Leroy. "You know how the young loathe being thought young, or reminded of their youth? Joey is just in that frame of mind at present. Because you were aboy of twenty-one when she was a child of twelve, she may darkly suspect you of desiring to continue on the footing of those days. Don't do that, for mercy's sake! For all practical purposes you are much nearer to each other in age than you were—"
A chuckle reverberated through the peaceful verandah, and the "Spectator" and "Sporting Life" converged for a moment as if to share a confidence.
"Jack," inquired Mrs. Leroy sternly, "what were you saying to Mr. D'Arcy just now?"
"Nothin', dear," said a meek voice.
"Mr. D'Arcy, what was he saying to you?"
Mr. D'Arcy took in a reef in the "Spectator" and replied suavely,—
"He made use of a sporting expression, dear lady, with regard to your plans for our friend Marrable's future, which I was happily unable to understand."
"Jack," said Mrs. Leroy in warning tones, "people who put their oar in uninvited get taken out for afternoon calls—in the brougham, with both windows up!"
The "Sporting Life" was promptly expanded to its full extent, and silence reigned again. Presently Mrs. Leroy observed cheerfully,—
"By the way, Hughie, you are home just in time for a dance—the Hunt Ball."
Hollow groans burst from behind the newspapers.
"Oh, look here!" said Hughie frankly. "I mean—not really?"
"Yes: I promised Nina Fludyer to back her up and bring a 'bus-load of people. Why don't you want to come?"
"Well, for one thing I have only danced twice since I went down from Cambridge. One time was at a Viceregal reception in Calcutta, and the other was in Montmartre—under less formal conditions. I'll tell you what—you and your house-party go to the ball and enjoy yourselves, and your husband and I will keep each other company here—eh?"
Captain Leroy put down his paper and said, "Good scheme!" in the loyal but mournful tones of one who realizes that it is a forlorn hope, but that one might as well have a shot for it. "In fact, dear," he continued desperately, "I was thinkin' of takin' Marrable out that very night to lie out for poachers. Old Gannet was tellin' me that the North Wood—that is—"
He observed his wife's withering eye, and became suddenly interested in the advertisements on the back page of his periodical.
"Jack," said Mrs. Leroy in a tone of finality, "on Tuesday night you put on your best bib and tucker and come with us—that's flat."
"All right, m' dear," replied her husband in a voice which said to Hughie, "I was afraid it wouldn't work, old man!"
"And why don'tyouwant to come, Hughie?" continued Mrs. Leroy, suddenly turning on her guest.
"Well, I am not cut out for balls," said Hughie. "Prefer the open air, somehow."
"If open air is all you want," remarked Mrs. Leroy grimly, "the Town Hall at Midfield is the draughtiest building in the county."
"Balls are dull affairs," urged the faithful but misguided Leroy, "compared with the excitement and—er—suspense—"
"If you want excitement and suspense," replied the inexorable Mrs. Leroy, "dance the Lancers with Lady Fludyer—fifteen stone of imperfectly balancedblanc-mange!"
"And just a spice of risk—"
"Risk? My dear boy, try the Ball Committee's champagne!"
Captain Leroy, defeated at all points, once more subsided; but D'Arcy took up the argument.
"Joking apart, Mrs. Leroy," he said, "it's an awful thing to be a supernumerary man at a dance in the country. You crawl in at the tail of your party, and shake hands with the governess, under the impression that she is your hostess. You are introduced to a girl, and book a dance.You don't catch her name, so you write down 'Red hair and bird of paradise' on your programme, and leave her. Of course you know nobody; so, after booking a few more wallflowers, you still find a good deal of time at your disposal. You can always tell a male wallflower. Women can usually brazen it out: they put on an air which implies that they have refused countless offers, and are sitting on a hard bench because they like it."
"They can't deceive the other women, though," said Mrs. Leroy.
"Still," agreed Hughie, "they impose on men all right. But, as D'Arcy says, a male wallflower is hopeless. He looks miserable, and either mopes in a corner like a new boy at school, or else reads away at his programme and peers about for a partner who isn't on it."
"Why not try the smoking-room?"
"The smokin'-room," interpolated Leroy, "is all right for the regular Philistine. But ifIgo there, I find it in possession of a bilious octogenarian and a retired major-general. They are sittin' in front of the fire with a cigar apiece. They glare at me when I come in, and then go on buckin' to each other. Presently they stop, and one says: 'I suppose you are not a dancin' man, sir,' in a way which implies that he doesn't know what the devil young men are comin' to nowadays. Andby this time I'm so ashamed of myself that I simply bolt out of the room, with some yarn about a brief rest between two dances, and go and sit among the hats and coats in the cloak-room until it is time to go and hunt up the next freak on my programme. Rotten job, I call it!"
Mrs. Leroy surveyed the three orators with an air of serene amusement.
"Ihaveroused a storm," she said. "But you are coming on Tuesday—all three! Now, Hughie, I know Jack is dying to take you round the stables and plantations. When you have smacked all the horses' backs and taken the pheasants' temperatures, come in. I want to introduce you to my offspring. You are fond of children, I know."
"I know I shall be fond of yours, Mildred," said Hughie.
"Thank you—that's nicely put. But they really are rather pets, though I say it who shouldn't."
"Rum little beggars," mused the male parent. "Bite your head off if they see you havin' a sherry and bitters before dinner. Got a sort of religious maniac of a nurse," he explained. "Been saved, and all that. Saveyoufor tuppence, Marrable!"
"She's a queer old thing," said Mrs. Leroy, "but such a good nurse that her weaknesses don'tmatter much. The children are never sick or sorry—wait till I tap wood! your head will do, Jack—and simply love her."
"I was pleased to learn from their own lips," remarked D'Arcy, "that they have been enthusiastic teetotalers from birth, and are both ardent supporters of Foreign Missions."
"And the baby?" inquired Hughie.
"Too young," replied Leroy; "but that doesn't excuse the poor little sinner from havin' to wear a blue ribbon."
"How does the nurse regard you, Leroy?" asked D'Arcy.
"Lost sheep—hard case—bad egg generally," replied that gentleman resignedly. "She's given me up, I'm glad to say; but she'll be on Hughie's track in no time. Come along."
In the joy of roaming round the familiar plantations and stables Hughie allowed the existence of Mildred Leroy's offspring to fade from his memory; and it was not until the party gathered for luncheon that he was reminded of the introduction in store for him.
The assembled company consisted of the host and hostess, D'Arcy, Hughie, Joan, and the young gentleman previously referred to as "Cherub." The others had departed on a sailing expedition. Joan had declined to go, alleging that she must stay at home and entertain her "keeper," as shehad now christened Hughie; and Cherub had speciously pleaded a tendency tomal de mer, and remained at home to steal a march on his rivals.
The party was completed by two chubby infants of seven and five, in large pinafores and short white socks, who were presented to Brevet-Uncle Hughie as Theodora and Hildegard, though Hughie discovered, after a brief experience of their society, that they answered without resentment and much more spontaneity to the appellations of "Duckles" and "Stodger" respectively.
They were deposited—it seems the right word—in the dining-room by an austere and elderly female, who groaned heavily at the sight of Captain Leroy, and eyed Hughie with unconcealed distrust before withdrawing. The small girls took their places one on each side of their mother, and sat, like two well-bred little owlets, taking stock of their new uncle. Presently their vigilance relaxed. It is a truism that teetotalers are hearty eaters, and the consumption of what was placed before them soon occupied the attention of Mesdames Duckles and Stodger to the exclusion of all else, the latter exhibiting a particularly praiseworthy attention to duty.
Their sole contribution to the conversation was offered when Leroy passed the claret to Hughie.
"Wine," remarked Duckles severely, "is a mocker!"
"Stwong dwink," corroborated Stodger, turning up the whites of her eyes, "is raging!"
The two ladies then groaned heavily in concert, and, having thus contributed their mite to the redemption of a sinner, resumed their repast.
At the end of the meal the numbers of the company were augmented by the arrival of John Marrable Leroy, aged two years—an infant whose apoplectic countenance sadly belied the small piece of blue ribbon inserted in his bib. Having taken his seat in his mother's lap, he proceeded, after the manner of babies, to give his celebrated entertainment. For the benefit of the company he obligingly identified various articles upon the table, and then proceeded to give an exposition (assisted by manual contortions) of the exact whereabouts of the Church, the Steeple, the Door, and the People. After this, without warning or apology, he deposited a nude foot in his mother's plate, having in some mysterious manner got rid of his shoe and sock under the table; and was proceeding to enumerate the respective marketing experiences of a family of little pigs, when his mother, deciding that it was high time thisséancecame to an end, called upon him to say grace on behalf of the company.
John Marrable Leroy reluctantly ceased fingering his toes, and twisted himself into a state of devotional rigidity. He then closed his eyes, folded his hands, and breathed stertorously. All waited with devoutly bowed heads for his benediction.
"T'ank God—" began Master Leroy at length.
There was another tense pause.
"T'ank God—" repeated the infant despondently.
Another hiatus.
"'For'—dearest," prompted his mother.
A smile of intense relief illuminated the supplicant's troubled countenance.
"—Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten!" he gabbled cheerfully; and the meeting broke up in unseemly confusion.
It was a hot afternoon, and Hughie, who as yet was far from getting tired of doing nothing, was well content to sprawl in a basket-chair under a great copper-beech, and watch the others play croquet.
Presently Joan, swinging a mallet, came and sat on the grass beside him.
"Well, Hughie?" she began, regarding her comptroller rather quizzically.
"Well, Joey?"
Then they both laughed, or rather chuckled. The curious part about it was that while Hughielaughed "Ha, ha!" deep down, Joey did the same. Tee-heeing and high-pitched feminine shrieking were beyond her compass. She was the Joey of old, with the same gruff voice, though she had got over her difficulty with ther's andl's.
"It seems rummy," observed Miss Gaymer reflectively, "my being put in your charge like the guard of a train. Do you expect me to obey you?"
"Yes," said Hughie. He felt he was missing an opportunity of saying something bright and striking, but "Yes" was the only word he could think of besides "No."
"Oh!" replied Miss Gaymer enigmatically.
"Don't you intend to?" inquired Hughie.
"Well, it depends on what you tell me to do. If it was anything that didn't matter much I might do it, sometimes, just to save your face. But as a rule I shouldn't."
"Oh!" said Hughie, in his turn.
"I may as well tell you at once," continued the lady, "the things that it's no use scolding me about. First of all, I always choose my own friends, and never take recommendations or warnings from anybody. Then you mustn't interfere with my dancing or sailing or riding, because I love them better than anything in the world. Then, you mustn't try to prevent my reading books and seeing plays that you think are bad for me, because that sort of thing is simplynotdonenowadays. And of course you mustn't call me extravagant if I dress nicely. Also, you mustn't expect me to go in for good works, because I hate curates. And don't give me advice, because I loathe it. On the other hand, it may comfort you to know—it doesmostmen, for some reason—that I don't want a vote and I don't smoke cigarettes. Oh, the poor little mite!"
She was on her feet and across the lawn in a flash, to where the obese Stodger, prostrate upon a half-buried tree-root, was proclaiming to the heavens the sorrow of a sudden transition from the perpendicular to the horizontal. She comforted the child with whole-hearted tenderness, and after taking her turn in the game of croquet, returned to Hughie and sat down beside him again.
"Well—what do you think of me?" she inquired suddenly.
Hughie regarded her intently.
"I don't know yet," he said. "I want to see a little more of you."
"Most people," said Miss Gaymer with dignity, "make up their minds about me at once."
"I won't do that," said Hughie. "It wouldn't be quite fair."
Joan pondered this retort and finally flushed like a child.
"That means that you have taken a dislike to me," she said.
"I didn't mean it that way," said Hughie, much distressed,—"really!"
"Anyhow, it means that you haven't made up your mind about me," persisted Joan.
"That is true," admitted Hughie, who was no hand at fencing.
"Well, do it soon," said Miss Gaymer. "I'm not accustomed to being put on trial. I may mention to you," she added complacently, "that I am considered a great success. Do you know what Jacky Penn told me?"
"No; what?" inquired Hughie perfunctorily. He was beginning to understand the inwardness of Mildred Leroy's warning that the girl beside him had not yet found her feet.
"He told me," said Joan, with an unaffected sigh of pleasure, "that the men here all call me 'The Toast.' What do you say to that?"
"A Toast," said Hughie rather heavily, "is usually 'an excuse for a glass.' I shouldn't like to think of you merely as that, Joey."
Miss Gaymer eyed her guardian with undisguised exasperation.
"Hughie, you have got fearfully old-maidish in the last nine years," she said. "Where have you been? In any decent society?"
"Sometimes; but not often. Not whatyouwould call decent society, Joey."
"Well," remarked Miss Gaymer, turning heropponent's flank with characteristic readiness, "whatever it was, it wasn't very particular about clothes. Hughie, your get-up is perfectlytragic. If you are going to be my keeper you will have to begin by dressing decently. I don't know who your tailor is, but—Che-e-erub!"
"What ho!" came from the croquet-lawn.
"Come here, at once."
Cherub obediently put down his mallet and approached. Having arrived, he halted and stood to attention.
"Cherub," commanded Miss Gaymer, "turn round and round till I tell you to stop, and let Mr. Marrable see your clothes."
Much flattered, Cherub rotated serenely on his axis for the benefit of the untutored Marrable, while Miss Gaymer ran over his points.
"Must I have a waist?" inquired Hughie meekly.
"Yes—if you'vegotone," replied Joan, surveying her guardian's amorphous shooting-jacket doubtfully.
"And purple socks?"
"Green will do, old man," remarked themannequinunexpectedly.
"Cherub, keep quiet!" said thecoutumière. "You have absolutely nothing whatever to recommend you but your clothes, so don't spoil it by babbling. There, Hughie! That is the sort of thing. You must go up to town next week andorder some. Run away, Cherub! Now, another thing, Hughie. Look at your hands. They're like a coal-heaver's, except that they're clean. Can't you get them attended to?"
Hughie surveyed his hands in a reminiscent fashion. They were serviceable members, and had pulled their owner through many rough places. At present the palms bore the mark of the Orinoco's coal-shovels, and there was a great scar on one wrist where Hughie had incautiously touched a hot bearing. There was also an incision in the middle knuckle of the right hand, caused by the impact of Mr. Gates's front teeth on an historic occasion. There were other and older marks, and most of them had some interesting story attached to them. But of course Joan did not know this. To her they were large, unsightly, un-manicured hands—only that and nothing more. Hughie sighed. All his old assets seemed to have become liabilities, somehow.
"Aren't they a scandal, Hughie?" Joan repeated.
"I suppose they are, Joey," said Hughie, coming out of his reverie. "Right O! I'll get them seen to. I don't suppose they're ever likely to be much use to me again," he added in a depressed tone, "so they might as well be made ornamental. I'll go and consult Sophy Fullgarney about them when I get back to town."
"Who's she?" said Joey quickly.
"Manicurist—before your time," said Hughie briefly, pleased to feel that he could give points to his ward in knowledge of something. "Any more requirements, Joey?"
"Let me see. Oh, yes. Can you dance?"
"Used to waltz," said Hughie cautiously.
"Decently?"
"I can get round a room."
"Can you reverse properly?"
"If a man reversed in my young days," said Hughie, "we used to regard him as a bounder. Do they do it now?"
"Yes, always. Can you do anything else?"
"The usual things—Lancers and polka. Danced a reel once in Scotland."
"Nobody dances the polka now, and I hate the Lancers. Can you two-step?"
"Never even heard of it."
Miss Gaymer sighed.
"Never heard of the Boston, I suppose?" she said resignedly.
"Never in my life," said Hughie. "Look here," he added, inspired by a sudden hope, "perhaps it would be as well if I stayed at home on Tuesday night—eh?"
"Quiteas well," said Miss Gaymer candidly. "But I don't suppose Mildred will let you off. You'll be wanted by the wallflowers."
"But not by Joey, apparently."
"I don't dance with rotters," said Miss Gaymer elegantly. "I am practically booked up already, too. However, if you apply at once I might give youone." She thought for a moment. "I'll try you with number eight."
"We had better not settle at present," said Hughie. "I should like to have a look round the ballroom before I tie myself down in any way. But I'll bear your application in mind."
Miss Joan Gaymer turned and regarded her companion with unfeigned astonishment. He was still sprawling, but his indolent pose of lazy contentment was gone, and for a moment challenge peeped out of his steely eyes. She rose deliberately from the grass, and walked with great stateliness back to the croquet-lawn.
Hughie sat on, feeling slightly breathless. He had just realised that he possessed a temper.
Presently Mrs. Leroy completed a sequence of five hoops and retired, followed by the applause of an incompetent partner, to the copper-beech.
She sat down opposite Hughie, and surveyed him expectantly.
"Well, Hughie?" she said.
"Well, Mildred?"
"Well, Hughie?"
"I think," said Hughie, answering the unspoken question, "that she wants—slapping!"
Mildred Leroy nodded her head sagely.
"Ah!" she remarked. "I thought you would say that. Well, I hope you'll do it."
Hughie reviewed the events of the day,more suo, at three o'clock next morning, sitting with his feet on the sill of his open bedroom window,—the bedroom of his boyhood, with the old school and 'Varsity groups upon the walls,—as he smoked a final pipe before retiring to rest.
It was almost dawn. The velvety darkness was growing lighter in texture; and occasionally an early-rising and energetic young bird would utter a tentative chirrup—only to subside, on meeting with no encouragement from the other members of the orchestra (probably trades unionists), until a more seasonable hour.
Hughie had sat on with D'Arcy and Leroy in the billiard-room long after the other men—Joey'sclientèle—had emptied their glasses and gone to bed. There had been a "ladies' night," accompanied by fearsome games (of a character detrimental to the table) between sides captained by Joey and another damsel; and even after Mildred Leroy had swept her charges upstairs there had been bear-fighting and much shrieking in the passages and up the staircase. Then the younger gentlemen had returned, rumpled but victorious, to quench their thirst and listen with respectfuldeference to any tale that the great Marrable might care to unfold. (The story of the Orinoco had gone round, though it had mercifully escaped the notice of the halfpenny papers.)
But Hughie had not been communicative, though he had proved an eager and appreciative listener to 'Varsity gossip and athletic "shop." So the young men, having talked themselves to a standstill, had gradually faded away, highly gratified to find the great man not only willing but eager to listen to their meticulous chronicles; and Hughie and D'Arcy and Leroy, their symposium reduced to companionable limits, had compared notes and "swapped lies," as the Americans say, far into the night.
Hughie's impressions of the day were slightly blurred and confused—at the which let no man wonder. He was accustomed to fresh faces and new environments, but the plunge from yesterday into to-day had been a trifle sudden. Last night he had driven up to the door of Manors a masterless man, a superior vagabond, an irresponsible free-lance, with hundreds of acquaintances and never a friend. In twenty-four hours this sense of irresponsible detachment had gone for ever, and the spell of English home-life had sunk deep into his being. He felt for the first time that he was more than a mere unit in the Universe. He had turned from something intosomebody. He realised that he had a stake in the country—the county—the little estate of Manors itself; and a great desire was upon him to settle down and surround himself with everything that is conveyed to an Englishman here and abroad—especially abroad—by the word Home.
Then there were the people with whom he had come in contact that day. They were nearly all old friends, but they were old friends with new faces. There was Mildred Leroy, for instance. He had half expected his relations with that young matron, the past considered, to be of a slightly tender and sentimental nature. Far from it. Her attitude to him was simply maternal—as, indeed, it had been, had he realised the fact, from the very beginning of their friendship. A woman always feels motherly towards a man of her own age, and rightly, for she is much older than he is. Occasionally she mistakes this motherly feeling for something else, and marries him—but not often. Obviously Mildred Leroy now regarded Hughie as nothing more than an eligible youngdébutant, the chaperon's natural prey, to be rounded up and paired off with all possible despatch.
Then there was Joey. Twenty-four hours ago he had had no particular views on the subject of his ward, beyond—
(1) The reflection that he would probably find her "rather a bore";
(2) An idle speculation as to whether, if expediency should demand it, he would be able to bring himself to marry her.
Well, twenty-four hours is a long time. He saw now quite clearly that whatever Miss Gaymer's shortcomings might be, a tendency to bore her companions was not one of them; and that if ever the other question should arise, the difficulty would lie, not in bringing himself to marry Joey, but in bringing Joey to marry him.
Like a sensible man, he decided to let things work themselves out in their own way, and went to bed. There he dreamed that Joey, attired in a blue kimono and red slippers, was teaching him to dance the two-step to a tune played by the engines of the Orinoco.
VARIUM ET MUTABILE
Hughiecontinued during the next few weeks to study the character of the female sex as exemplified by his ward Miss Joan Gaymer, and some facts in natural history were brought to his notice which had not hitherto occurred to him.
In her relations with her male belongings a woman does not expect much. Certainly not justice, nor reason, nor common sense. That which she chiefly desires—so those who know inform us—is admiration, and, if possible, kindness, though the latter is not essential. The one thing she cannot brook is neglect. Attention of some kind she must have. Satisfy her soul with this, and she will remain all you desire her to remain,—toute femme,—something for lonely mankind to thank God for. Stint her, and there is a danger that she will drift into the ranks of that rather pathetic third sex, born of higher education and feminine superfluity, which to-day stands apart from its fellow-creatures and loudly proclaims its loathing for the masculinity of man and its contempt for the effeminacy of woman, but which seems so far only to have cast awaythe rapier of the one without being able to lift or handle the bludgeon of the other.
Not that Miss Joan Gaymer ran any such risk. She was indeedtoute femme, and stood secure from the prospect of being cut off from her natural provender. Her chief danger was that of a surfeit. She possessed a more than usually healthy appetite for admiration, and there was never wanting a supply of persons—chiefly of her own sex, be it said—to proclaim the fact that in her case the line between appetite and gluttony was very finely drawn indeed. There was some truth, it is to be feared, in the accusation, for Joan was undoubtedly exhibiting symptoms at this time of a species of mental indigestion—what the French calltête montéeand the Americans "swelled head"—induced by an undiluted diet of worship and homage. Appetite for this sort of thing grows with eating, and Joan, like her mother before her, was beginning to think too much of those who supplied her with the meat her soul loved and too little of those who did not. And as those who did not were chiefly those who had her welfare most nearly at heart, she was deprived for the time being of a good deal of the solid sustenance of real friendship.
She was a curious mixture of worldly wisdom and naïveté, and was frankly interested in herself. She was undisguisedly anxious to knowwhat people thought of her, and made no attempt to conceal her pleasure when she found herself "a success." On the other hand, she presumed a great deal too much on the patience and loyalty of her following. She was always captious, frequently inconsiderate, and, like most young persons who have been respectably brought up, was desperately anxious to be considered rather wicked.
These facts the slow-moving brain of Hughie Marrable absorbed one by one, and he felt vaguely unhappy on the girl's account, though he could not find it in his heart to blame her. Joey, he felt, was merely making full use of her opportunities. Within her small kingdom, and for her brief term, she held authority as absolute as that, say, of a secretary of state, nor was she fettered by any pedantic scruples, such as might have hampered the official in question, about exercising the same; and Hughie, who was something of an autocrat himself, could not but admit that his ward was acting very much,mutatis mutandis, as he would have done under similar circumstances.
But as time went on and his sense of perspective adjusted itself, he began to discover signs that beneath all her airs and graces and foam and froth, the old Joey endured. She was a creature of impulse, and her vagaries were more frequentlydue to the influence of the moment than any desire to pose. She would disappoint a young man of a long-promisedtête-à-têteon the river, to go and play at shop in a plantation with the under-keeper's children. She would shed tears over harrowing but unconvincing narratives of destitution at the back door. She was kind to plain girls,—which attractive girls sometimes are not,—and servants adored her, which is a good sign of anybody.
She was lavishly generous; indeed, it was never safe for her girl friends to express admiration, however discreet, for anything belonging to her, for she had an embarrassing habit of tearing off articles of attire or adornment and saying, "I'll give it to you!" with the eagerness and sincerity of a child.
And her code of honour was as strict as a schoolboy's—than which no more can be said. A secret was safe with her. She had once promptly and permanently renounced the friendship of a particular crony of her own, who boasted to her, giving names and details, of a proposal of marriage which she had recently refused.
In short, Miss Joan Gaymer strongly resembled the young lady who in times long past was a certain poetical gentleman's Only Joy. She was sometimes forward, sometimes coy,—sometimes, be it added, detestable,—but she never failedto please—or rather, to attract, which is better still.
Mrs. Jack Leroy spared neither age nor sex on the night of the Hunt Ball. Her husband, Hughie, and the Reverend Montague D'Arcy—all suffering from that peculiar feeling of languid depression which invariably attacks the male sex about 9.30P.M.when dancing is in prospect—were hounded into pumps and white gloves, and packed into the omnibus, which, after a drive of seven miles, during which the gentlemen slept furtively and the tongues of Joan and her girl friends wagged unceasingly, deposited the entire party of twelve on the steps of the Town Hall at Midfield.
Their numbers had been completed by some overnight arrivals. The first two were Mr. and Mrs. Lance Gaymer. Joan's only brother had taken upon him the responsibility of matrimony at the early age of twenty-two, and the rather appalling young person who preceded him into the drawing-room, and greeted Joan as "Jowey," was the accessory to the fact. Why or where Lance had married her no one knew. He had sprung her one day, half proudly, half defiantly, upon a family circle at Manors which was for the moment too horror-struck to do anything but gape. Fortunately Uncle Jimmy was not present,—he had departed on his voyage by this time,—and it was left to Joan to welcome the latest additionto the house of Gaymer. This she did very sensibly and prettily, though she wept unrestrainedly upon the sympathetic bosom of Mildred Leroy afterwards.
For Lance's sake Mrs. Gaymer was accepted without demur. Whatever she was or had been,—whether she had manipulated a beer-engine or gesticulated in musical comedy,—there she was, and had to be assimilated. No questions were asked, but she was religiously invited to Manors at intervals, and Joan and Mrs. Leroy, when they went up to town in the season, paid occasional state calls upon Mrs. Lance at her residence in Maida Vale, where they drank tea in company with thealumnæof the variety stage and the jug-and-bottle department.
Lance himself was understood to be making a living out of journalism. He looked considerably more than twenty-three.
The third arrival was a Mr. Guy Haliburton, proposed for admission by Mr. Lance Gaymer, seconded by Mrs. Lance Gaymer. He was full of deference, and apologised with graceful humility for his presence. He felt himself a horrible intruder, he said, but he had been assured so earnestly by "old Lance" that Mrs. Leroy was in want of another dancing man, that he had ventured to accept his vicarious invitation and come to Manors. He was made welcome.
Mr. Haliburton, on further acquaintance, described himself as an actor, but Hughie, whose judgments of men—as opposed to women—were seldom wrong, put him down unhesitatingly as a gentleman who lived, actor or no, by his wits. He was a striking-looking personage of about thirty. He had curly black hair and dark eyes, with dangerous eyelashes. He was well dressed,—too well dressed for the country,—and one felt instinctively that he was a good card-player, and probably objected to cold baths and early rising.
The Manors party were greeted in the vestibule of the Town Hall by Lady Fludyer, self-appointed Mistress of the Revels. At present she more nearly resembled a well-nourished Niobe.
"My dear," she cried, falling limply upon Mrs. Leroy and kissing her feverishly, "whatdoyou think has happened?"
"Band not come?" hazarded Mrs. Leroy.
"Worse! Not a man—not a subaltern—not a drummerboy can get away from Ipsleigh to-night!" (Ipsleigh was a neighbouring militarydepôt, and a fountain-head of eligibility in a barren land.) "They have all been called out to some absurd inspection, or route-march, or manœuvres, or something, at twenty-four hours' notice. And they were coming here inswarms!There won't be nearly enough men to go round now. Half the girls will be against the wall all night! Oh, mydear, when I get hold of the General—"
Lady Fludyer's voice rose to a shriek, and she plunged wailing into a dark doorway, like a train entering a tunnel.
Mrs. Leroy turned to her shrinking cavaliers, with satisfaction in her eye.
"It's as well I brought the lot of you," she said. "Now get to work. Jack, the first waltz with you, if you please."
The ball was soon in full swing, though it was only too plain that men were somewhat scarce. Hughie, much to his alarm, found his programme full in ten minutes, and presently, bitterly regretting the stokehold of the Orinoco, put forth into the fray with Mrs. Lance Gaymer, having decided to do his duty by that lady as soon as possible, and get it over. She addressed him as "dear boy," and waltzed in a manner which reminded him of the Covent Garden balls of his youth, thereby causing the highest and haughtiest of the county to inquire of their partners who she might be. The word soon passed round that she was the wife of young Gaymer. ("You remember, don't you? Rather an unfortunate marriage, and all that. Barmaid, or something. However, the family have decided tomake the best of her. They'll have their hands full—eh?") Whereupon fair women elevated their discreetly powdered noses a little higher, while unregenerate men hurried up, like the Four Young Oysters, all eager for the treat, and furtively petitioned Lance Gaymer to introduce them to his wife.
On entering the ballroom Joan Gaymer, serenely conscious of a perfectly-fitting new frock and her very best tinge of colour, took up her stand at her recognised "pitch" beside the end pillar on the left under the musicians' gallery, and proceeded to fill up the vacancies caused in her programme by the defection of the dancing warriors from Ipsleigh. Among the first applicants for the favour of a waltz was Mr. Guy Haliburton.
"All right—number two," said Joan.
Haliburton wrote it down, and asked for another.
"I'll see how you waltz first," said Miss Gaymer frankly. "Then—perhaps! I am rather particular."
The music had risen to her brain like wine, and she was in what her admirers would have called her most regal, and her detractors her most objectionable, mood. Mr. Haliburton, however, merely bowed reverentially, and made way for an avalanche of Binkses and Cherubs, with whomJoan, babbling at the top of her voice and enjoying every moment of her triumph, booked a list of fixtures that stretched away far into to-morrow morning.
The waltz with the fascinating Haliburton proved so satisfactory,—in point of fact, he was easily the best dancer in the room,—that Joan immediately granted him two more. It was characteristic of her that she declined to take the floor again until the unfortunate gentlemen at whose expense Haliburton was being honoured had been found, brought to her, and apprised of their fate. They protested feebly, but Joan swept them aside in a fashion with which they were only too familiar.
"Run way, chicks," she said maternally, "and get fresh partners. There are heaps of nice girls to spare to-night. Look at that little thing over there, with the blue eyes, and forget-me-nots in her hair. Get introduced to her—she's perfectlylovely. Worth six of me, any day. Trot!"
But the two young men, refusing to be comforted, growled sulkily and elbowed their way outside, to console each other for the fragility of petticoat promises, and fortify themselves against any further slings and arrows of outrageous Fortune of a similar nature, in the refreshment room.
Still, the girl to whom Joan had directed their attention was well worth notice. She stood nearthe door, a slim, graceful, and somehow rather appealing little figure. Her hair was the colour of ripe corn, her eyes, wide and wondering, were as blue as the forget-me-nots in her hair, and her lips, to quote King Solomon upon a very different type of female, were like a thread of scarlet. She wore a simple white frock, and carried in her hand the bouquet of thedébutante.
Joan swung past her in the embrace of the ever-faithful Binks.
"That child is a perfect dream," she said to herself, "but her mouth is trembling at the corners. I wonder if some man has forgotten to ask her to dance. I should think—"
At this point in her reflections she was whirled heavily into the orbit of a reversing couple, and the ensuing collision, together with the enjoyment of exacting a grovelling apology from the hapless Binks (who was in no way responsible for the accident), drove further cogitations on the subject of the girl with the forget-me-nots out of her head.
About midnight Joan slipped upstairs to what her last partner—a mechanically-minded young gentleman from Woolwich—described as the repairing shop, to make good the ravages effected by the Lancers as danced in high society in the present year of grace.
The music for the next waltz was just beginning when she returned to her pillar. No eager partnerawaited her, which was unusual; and Joan glanced at her programme. She bit her lip.
"Number eight," she said to herself. "Joey, my child, he has scored you off—and you deserve it!"
This cryptic utterance had reference to Mr. Hugh Marrable, to whom it may be remembered this particular dance had been offered, much as a bone is thrown to a dog, on the lawn at Manors three days before.
Hughie's subsequent demeanour had piqued his ward's curiosity. He had made no further reference to number eight, neither had he made any attempt during this evening to come up and confirm the fixture. In fact, he had not asked Joan for a dance at all, with the consequence that Miss Gaymer, who, serenely confident that her guardian would come and eat humble pie at the last moment, had kept number eight free, now found herself occupying the rather unusualrôleof wallflower. What was more, she knew she would be unable to pick up a partner, for every available man was being worked to the last ounce, and pretty girls still sat here and there about the room, chatting with chaperons and maintaining a brave appearance of enjoyment andinsouciance.
"I'm not going to let Hughie see me propping a wallthisdance," said Joan to herself with decision. "He would think I had been keeping itfor him. What shall I do? Go back to the cloakroom? No; it is always full of girls without partners pretending they've just dropped in to get sewn up. I'll go to the Mayor's parlour and sit there. It's never used at these dances."
Making a mental entry on the debit side of her missing partner's ledger, Miss Gaymer retired unostentatiously from the ballroom, and turned down an unlighted passage, which was blocked by a heavy screen marked "Private," and encumbered with rolls of carpet and superfluous furniture.
The darkened passage was comfortably cool and peaceful after the blaze and turmoil of the field of action, and apparently had not been discovered by couples in search of seclusion. Joan was approaching the end, where she knew the door of the Mayor's parlour was situated, when she became aware of a certain subdued sound quite near her. It was a sound well calculated to catch the ear of one so tender-hearted as herself. Some one was sobbing, very wretchedly, in the darkness within a few feet of her.
Joan stopped short, a little frightened, and peered about her. Her eyes were growing accustomed to the gloom, and presently she beheld a glimmer of white almost at her knee. The glimmer outlined itself into the form of a filmy ball-dress.
Joan tackled the situation with her usual promptitude.
"I say," she said, "what's the matter? Let me help you."
The sobbing ceased, and the white figure sat up with a start.
"If you don't mind," continued Joan, "I'm going to turn up this electric light."
There was a click, and the rays of a single and rather dusty incandescent lamp illuminated the scene, and with it the slender figure, seated forlornly on a roll of red carpet, of the little lady of the forget-me-nots.
Her face was flushed with sudden shame, for her shoulders were still heaving, and her cheeks glistened with tears, the which she dabbed confusedly with a totally inadequate scrap of pocket handkerchief.
Joan, regardless of her new frock, was down upon the dusty roll of carpet in a moment. She put her arm round the girl.
"My dear," she said authoritatively, "what is it? Tell me."
The girl told her. It was a simple story, and not altogether a novel one, but it contained the elements of tragedy for all that.
This was her coming-out ball. She pointed to her discarded bouquet lying on the grimy floor. Her father had put it into her hand, and hung alittle enamel pendant round her neck, and given her a kiss,—she told her story with all a child's fidelity to detail,—and had despatched her in her brother's charge, with admonitions not to break too many hearts, on the long fourteen-mile drive to Midfield,—a period occupied in ecstatic anticipations of the event to which she had been looking forward ever since she had put her hair up.
Her brother, on their arrival, had booked one dance with her,—subsequently cancelled with many apologies on the ground that he had just met a girl whom he simplymustdance with,—and introduced her to two young men whose programmes were already full; after which he had plunged into the crowd, comfortably conscious that his duty had been done, leaving his sister to stand, smiling bravely, with tingling feet and her heart in her throat, from half-past nine until a quarter-past twelve. The music was pulsing in her ears, youth and laughter were swinging easily past her—even brushing her skirt; and she was utterly and absolutely alone. She was just eighteen; she was the prettiest girl (with the possible exception of Joan Gaymer) in the room; it was her first ball—and not a man had asked her to dance. A small matter, perhaps, compared with some, but men have blown out their brains for less.
Long before she had sobbed out all her pitiful little narrative her head was on Joan's shoulder, and that mercurial young person, oblivious of everything save the fact that here was a sister in distress, was handling the situation as if she were twenty years her companion's senior instead of two.
"I stood it for nearly three hours," said the girl apologetically, "and then I—I came here."
"Well, my dear," said Joan with decision, "you aren't going to stay here any longer. You are coming straight back to the ballroom with me."
"I can't," replied the girl,—"I couldn'tbearit!"
"You are coming back to the ballroom with me," repeated Miss Gaymer firmly. "There are sixteen dances to go yet, and you are going to dance the soles of your slippers through, my child!"
"You are awfully kind," said the girl wistfully, "but you won't be able to find me a partner now."
"I can find you sixteen," said Joan.
The child turned wondering eyes on her, and asked a question.
"Me? Oh, I shall have a rest: I want one," replied Miss Gaymer,splendide mendax. "In fact, it will be a charity on your part to take them. They're all stupid, and they can't dance."
But the girl shook her head.
"You're a dear to suggest it," she said, "but it wouldn't do. Think how angry they would be, having booked a dance with Miss Gaymer, and only getting—"
"Do you know me?" asked Joan in surprise.
"Everybody knows you," said the girl.
Joan flushed rosily. It was a compliment after her own heart.
"I say, what'syourname?" she asked.
"Sylvia Tarrant."
Joan nodded. "I know now," she said. "You live near Gainford."
The Tarrants were new-comers. Sylvia's father was a retired sailor and a widower, and had but lately settled in the district, which would account for his daughter's want of acquaintance.
"Yes," said Sylvia. "But really, I could not take your partners. They'd be furious at getting me instead of you."
Miss Gaymer turned and scrutinised the face and figure beside her.
"All you want, my child," she said, "is astart. After to-night you'll never be left alone for two seconds at any ball you care to go to. In fact, I don't see how I shall ever be able to get any partners at all," she added plaintively.
At this idea the girl laughed and looked happier,which was just exactly what Joan meant her to do. Her spirit was returning.
Joan rose briskly.
"Now, Sylvia," she said, "I'm going to leave you for two minutes, because I want to find a man to send round and tell all my partners that you've agreed to take them on. Then I'll come back and get you started. Just put yourself straight. There's a loose end of hair here: I'll roll it up. There! Your eyes are getting better every minute. Give your skirt a shake out, and have a look at yourself in that mirror, and you'll be simply perfect. So long!"
"There's somebody coming," said Sylvia, turning from her toilet and looking over her shoulder.
A masculine form filled the passage. It was Hughie, who, deprived of a partner through Joan's absence,—the result of standing on his dignity in the matter of number eight,—was prowling about in search of a quiet spot where he might indulge in the luxury of a pipe.
Joan, who had forgotten all about number eight, received him with unfeigned pleasure, and hurried him back whence he came. On the way she breathlessly explained the situation to him.
"Hughie, that poor child has come here not knowing a soul, and has stood against the wall for three hours. There isn't a partner to be had for love or money at this hour, so she must justhave mine. Take my programme—wait a minute, I'll fill in some of these initials—and go round to all the men whose names are on it, and tell them I'm very sorry but I've got a headache and can't dance any more to-night, but they're to come to me at once at my pillar and be introduced to a substitute I've provided for them."
"Do you think they'll exactly—jumpat the idea of a substitute?" suggested Hughie mildly.
"Their business," said Miss Gaymer with a sudden return to her usual manner, "is to do what I tell them! Run, Hughie. Don't say a word about the poor kid not having been able to get partners, will you? Say she came late—anything! You understand?"
Hughie nodded.
"I understand," he said. "She came late, and you have a headache. Those are the two essential facts of the case—eh?"
"Yes. Hurry!" said Joan, giving her guardian a push.
"Joey," said Hughie, "you're a brick!"
Half an hour later the members of the Midfield Hunt Ball were electrified to behold Miss Joan Gaymer sitting between two comatose and famished chaperons, watching the dancers with indulgent eye, and generally presenting the appearance of one whose time for these follies is overpast.
Then heads began to turn in another direction. People were asking one another who the little thing with the forget-me-nots might be, who danced like a fairy, and appeared to have made a "corner" in all Miss Gaymer's usual admirers. Had her appearance anything to do with Miss Gaymer's retirement? A case of pique—eh? Heads wagged sagely, and eyebrows were elevated. Poor Joan! Like all the great ones of the earth, she had her detractors.
Sylvia herself was lost in the clouds by this time. When not engaged in obeying Joan's mandate to dance the soles of her slippers through, she was granting interviews to obsequious young men, who surged round in respectful platoons and hoped that, though disappointed on this occasion, they might have the pleasure at the County Bachelors' on Thursday fortnight.
Never was there such a triumph. The girl, radiant and fluttering, smiled and blushed and wrote down hopeless hieroglyphics on the back of her programme, while Miss Joan Gaymer, the deposed, the eclipsed, sat contentedly by and realised to the full the truth of her own dictum that all Sylvia Tarrant wanted was a start.
Later in the evening the watchful eye of Hughie Marrable detected the fact that Joan had disappeared from amid the concourse of matrons, and he speculated as to where she might be. Hehimself was enjoying a brief period of freedom, his partner for the moment having pleaded urgent private repairs and vanished to the regions above, and the idea had struck him that Joan might be going supperless.
A brief scrutiny informed him that she was neither in the ballroom nor the supper-room. Then an inspiration seized him. Waiting for a comparatively quiet moment, he paid a hasty visit to the latter apartment, and having levied a contribution upon the side-table, slipped furtively round the big screen and down the dark passage.
His instincts had not failed him. Miss Joan Gaymer was sitting peacefully upon the roll of red carpet. Her head was lying back against the wall, and the rays of the dusty electric light glinted upon her coppery hair. Her eyes were closed, but she opened them at Hughie's approach, blinking like a sleepy Dryad.
"Hallo, Hughie!" she observed. "You nearly won a pair of gloves that time. Long evening, this!"
Hughie began to deposit articles on the floor.
"Supper," he observed briefly.
He laid out a plate of mayonnaise, another of trifle, a bottle about half-full of champagne, and a tumbler.
"Hughie," said Joan, "you're the only realfriend I have in the world! I was nearlycryingfor something to eat. That, and seeing other people dance and not me. Hughie, it was simply awful! I had no idea: if I had sat there much longer I should have burst into tears. I'd forgotten, too, that by giving away all my partners I was giving away my supper. If I'd remembered I would have kept just one—a little one. But never mind, now: the plague is stayed. I owe you one for this. How did you manage to carry all those things?"