So she stood—­for ten seconds maybe—­under the droop of the heavy curtain Manasseh held aside for her.  The hush of the room was homage to her beauty.  Her gaze, passing between the lines of his guests, sought the Collector.  It was fearless, but held a hint of expectancy.  Perhaps she waited for him to leave his place and come forward to receive her.  But he made no motion to do this; not being, in fact, sufficient master of his legs.

“Good-evening, my lord!” She swept him a curtsy.  “You sent for me?”

Before he could answer, she had lowered her eyes.  They rested on a chair that happened to stand empty beside Batty Langton, and a slight inclination of the head gave Langton to understand that she wished him to offer it.  He did so, and she moved to it.  The men, embarrassed for a moment by their host’s silence—­they had expected him to answer her, but he stood staring angrily as one rebuffed—­followed her cue and reseated themselves.  He, too, dropped back in his chair, leaned forward for the decanter, and poured himself more wine.  The buzz of talk revived, at first a word or two here and there, tentative after the check, then more confidently.  Within a minute the voices were babel again.

Batty Langton pondered.  A baronet should not be addressed as “my lord,” and she had been guilty of a solecism.  At the same time her manner had been perfect; her carriage admirably self-possessed.  Her choice of a seat, too, at the end of the table and furthest from Sir Oliver—­if she had come unwillingly—­had been wittily taken, and on the moment, and with the appearance of deliberate ease.

“They will be calling on you presently to drink our host’s health,” he suggested, clearing a space of the table in front of her and collecting very dexterously two or three unused wine-glasses.  Champagne? . . .  Miss Quiney is drinking champagne, I see, though her neighbours have deserted it for red wine.  Sir Oliver, by the way, grows lazy in pushing the decanters. . . .  Shall I signal to him?”

“On no account.  Champagne, if you please . . . though I had rather you kept it in readiness.”

“I am sorry, Miss Josselin, but there you ask of me the one thing impossible.  I cannot abide to let wine stand and wait; and champagne—­ watch it, how it protests!” He filled her glass and refilled his own.  “By the way,” he added, sinking his voice, “one is permitted to congratulate a debutante?”

“And to criticise.”

“There was nothing to criticise except—­Oh, well, a trifle.  At home in England we don’t ‘my lord’ a mere baronet, you know.”

“But since he is my lord?” She smiled gently, answering his puzzled stare.  “How, otherwise, should I be here?”

Mr. Langton took wine to digest this.  He shook his head.  “You must forgive me.  It is clear that I am drunk—­abominably drunk—­for I miss the point—­”

“You accuse yourself unjustly.”