No doubt, as the dinner moved on, this first impression changed somewhat.  She began to distinguish notes that had at first been lost upon her.  She caught the mocking, ambiguous tone under which she herself had so often fumed; she watched the occasional recoil of the women about him, as though they had been playing with some soft-pawed animal, and had been suddenly startled by the gleam of its claws.  These things puzzled, partly propitiated her.  But on the whole she was restless and hostile.  How was it possible—­from such personal temporising—­such a frittering of the forces and sympathies—­to win the single-mindedness and the power without which no great career is built?  She wanted to talk with him—­reproach him!

“Well—­I must go—­worse luck,” said Wharton at last, laying down his napkin and rising.  “Lane, will you take charge?  I will join you outside later.”

“If he ever finds us!” said her neighbour to Marcella.  “I never saw the place so crowded.  It is odd how people enjoy these scrambling meals in these very ugly rooms.”

Marcella, smiling, looked down with him over the bare coffee-tavern place, in which their party occupied a sort of high table across the end, while two other small gatherings were accommodated in the space below.

“Are there any other rooms than this?” she asked idly.

“One more,” said a young man across the table, who had been introduced to her in the dusk outside, and had not yet succeeded in getting her to look at him, as he desired.  “But there is another big party there to-night—­Raeburn—­you know,” he went on innocently, addressing the minister; “he has got the Winterbournes and the Macdonalds—­quite a gathering—­rather an unusual thing for him.”

The minister glanced quickly at his companion.  But she had turned to answer a question from Lady Selina, and thenceforward, till the party rose, she gave him little opportunity of observing her.

As the outward-moving stream of guests was once more in the corridor leading to the terrace, Marcella hurriedly made her way to Mrs. Lane.

“I think,” she said—­“I am afraid—­we ought to be going—­my friend and I. Perhaps Mr. Lane—­perhaps he would just show us the way out; we can easily find a cab.”

There was an imploring, urgent look in her face which struck Mrs. Lane.  But Mr. Lane’s loud friendly voice broke in from behind.

“My dear Miss Boyce!—­we can’t possibly allow it—­no! no—­just half an hour—­while they bring us our coffee—­to do your homage, you know, to the terrace—­and the river—­and the moon!—­And then—­if you don’t want to go back to the House for the division, we will see you safely into your cab.  Look at the moon!—­and the tide”—­they had come to the wide door opening on the terrace—­“aren’t they doing their very best for you?”

Marcella looked behind her in despair. Where was Edith?  Far in the rear!—­and fully occupied apparently with two or three pleasant companions.  She could not help herself.  She was carried on, with Mr. Lane chatting beside her—­though the sight of the shining terrace, with its moonlit crowd of figures, breathed into her a terror and pain she could hardly control.