How did that kind of fooling strike the ‘kits’ and the Indian bandsman up aloft, wondered Roy.  A pity they never gave a thought to that side of the picture.  He determined not to be drawn in.  Lance, he noticed, studiously refrained.  Miss Arden—­having tantalised three aspirants—­was looking round for a fourth victim.  Their eyes met—­and he was done for....

Directly his knee touched the cushion, the recoil came sharply—­too late.  And she—­as if aware of his reluctance—­played him mercilessly, smiling down on him with her astonishing hazel eyes....

Roy’s patience and temper gave out.  Tingling with mortification, he rose and walked away, to be greeted with a volley of good-natured chaff.

He was followed by Lister, ‘the R.E. boy,’ who at once secured the elusive bait, clearly by favour rather than skill.  The rest had already paired.  The band struck up; and Roy, partnerless, stood looking on, the film of the East over his face masking the clash of forces within.  The fool he was to have given way!  And this—­before them all—­after yesterday...!

His essential masculinity stood confounded; blind to the instinct of the essential coquette—­allurement by flight.  He resolved to take no part in the final figure—­the mirror and handkerchief; would not even look at her, lest she catch his eye.

Her choice fell on Hayes; and Roy—­elaborately indifferent—­carried Lance off to the buffet for champagne cup.  It was a thirsty evening; a relief to be quit of the ballroom and get a breath of masculine fresh air.  The fencing-bout and its aftermath had consciously quickened his feeling for Lance.  In the fury of that fight they seemed to have worked off the hidden friction of the past few weeks that had dimmed the steady radiance of their friendship.  It was as if a storm-cloud had burst and the sun shone out again.

They said nothing intimate, nothing worthy of note.  They were simply content.

Yet, when music struck up, Roy was in a fever to be with her again.

Her welcoming smile revived his reckless mood.  “Ours—­this time, anyway,” he said, in an odd repressed voice.

“Yes—­ours.”

Her answering look vanquished him utterly.  As his arm encircled her, he fancied she leaned ever so little towards him, as if admitting that she too felt the thrill of coming together again.  Fancy or no, it was like a lighted match dropped in a powder magazine....

For Roy that single valse, out of scores they had danced together, was an experience by itself.

While the music plays, a man encircles one woman and another, from habit, without a flicker of emotion.  But to-night volcanic forces in Roy were rising like champagne when the cork begins to move.  Never had he been so disturbingly aware that he was holding her in his arms; that he wanted tremendously to go on holding her when the music stopped.  To this danger-point he had been brought by the unconscious effect of delicate approaches and strategic retreats.  And the man who has most firmly kept the cork on his emotions is often the most unaccountable when it flies off....