She did not greatly wish to go to the Hunt Ball that year.  She felt utterly out of tune with all gaiety.  But she could think of no decent excuse for remaining away.  And she was still buoying herself up with the thought that Guy’s silence could not last much longer.  She was bound to hear from him soon.

She went to the Ball, therefore, feeling tired and dispirited, and looking quite passee, as her step-mother several times assured her.

She had endured a long harangue upon jealousy that evening, which vice Mrs. Ingleton declared she was allowing to embitter her whole life, and she was weary to death of the subject and the penetrating voice that had discoursed upon it.  Once or twice she had been stung into some biting rejoinder, but for the most part she had borne the lecture in silence.  After all, what did it matter?  What did it matter?

They reached the Town Hall and went up the carpeted steps.  Preston, in hunting pink, received them.  He captured Sylvia’s hand and pressed it tight against his heart.

She stared at him with wide unsmiling eyes.  “Seen the local rag?” he asked, as he grinned amorously into them.  “There’s something to interest you in it.  Our local prophet has been at work.”

She did not know what he meant, or feel sufficiently interested to inquire.  She pulled her hand free, and passed on.  His familiarity became more marked and more insufferable every time she encountered him.  But still she asked herself again, what did it matter?

He laughed and let her go.

In the cloak-room people looked at her oddly, but beyond ordinary greetings no one spoke to her.  She did not know that it was solely her utter wretchedness that kept them at a distance.

She entered the ballroom behind Mrs. Ingleton, and at once Preston descended upon her again.  He had scrawled his name against half a dozen dances on her card before she realized what he was doing.  She began to protest, but again that deadly feeling of apathy overcame her.  She was worn out—­worn out.  What did it matter whether she danced with the man or not?

Young Vernon Eversley, a friendly boy whom she had always liked, pursed his lips when he saw her programme.

“It’s true then, is it?” he said.

“What is true?” She looked at him questioningly, not feeling greatly interested in his answer.

He met her look with straight, honest eyes.  “I saw the announcement of your engagement in the paper this morning; but somehow I didn’t believe it.  He’s a dashed lucky man.”

That startled her out of her lethargy.  She began a quick disclaimer, but they were interrupted.  One of the stewards came up and swept young Eversley away.

The next moment Preston came and took possession of her.  He was laughing still as he whirled her in among the dancers, refusing to give her any breathing-space.

“I want to see a little colour in those cheeks of yours, Cherry-ripe,” he said.  “What’s the Ingleton dragon been doin’ to you, my pretty?”