His greeting to Dudley was not cordial.  It was with difficulty indeed that he did not take Claudia away at once.  Dudley was not the sort of man for her to have anything to do with.  In a time incredibly short, but to Laine irritatingly long, David was back, abundantly supplied; and with a nod he was directed to the room at the end of the narrow hall, and Laine turned to the girl at his side.  “Are you ready?”

“Good night.”  Miss Keith held out her hand.  “Bettina sent you many messages.”

“I’m coming to get them—­may I?” Mr. Dudley’s eyes were frankly eager.  “But where are you going?  Laine always was a monopolist.  What are you doing at a thing of this kind, anyhow, Laine?  Don’t pay any attention to him, Miss Keith.  He’s mere facts and figures, and the froth of life is not in him.  I’m much better company.”

The last words were lost in the push of new arrivals, and quickly Laine led the way to the room where David was waiting.  Through the open door the sound of music reached them faintly over the shrill rise and fall of many voices; and as Claudia sat down near the table on which various plates had been placed she put her hands to the sides of her face and, laughing, drew them away.

“Did you ever put a cockle-shell to your ear and notice its roar?” she asked.  “That’s how a Tea sounds when there’re only women at it.  When there’re men it’s more so.  What is this?” She held her fork suspended for a moment.  “It’s awfully good, but very elusive.  What do you suppose it is?”

“A bunch of guesses wouldn’t hit it.  Clicot is providing the provender, I believe; I see his men here, and the ambition of Clicot’s life is to create a new dish.  I’m glad you like it.  It’s as near nothing as anything I ever ate.  Are you comfortable?  Is that chair all right?”

Claudia nodded.  “Why don’t you sit down?  I’m sorry we can’t see the people, but it’s nice to be out of the crowd.”  She looked around the room.  “This is a very handsome house.  I never saw more gorgeous flowers, and tomorrow,” she gave a queer little sigh, “tomorrow it will all be over—­and the flowers faded.”

“Faded things are the penalties of wealth.  It’s the one compensation for follies of this sort that they are soon over.”

“I don’t think they are always follies.  When I was young—­”

He looked down at her, in his eyes a quiet gleam.  “When you were what?”

“Young.  Really young, I mean.  I had my party when I was eighteen.  I remember it just as well.”  She gave a happy little laugh.  “But of course we change with time.  My sister says I am developing a dreadful disease.  It’s a tendency.  Did you ever have it?”

“A what?”