“Now,” cries she gaily, her lovely little face lit up with excitement, “who ever the last word comes to, he or she will have to hunt us!  See?”

She takes her right hand from Mrs. Bethune’s, that she may point her little forefinger at each one in succession, and begins her incantation with Mr. Gower, who is directly opposite to her, nodding her head at each mystic word; and, indeed, so far as the beginning of it goes, this strange chant of hers mystifies everybody—­everybody except Tom Hescott, who has played this game with her before, in the not so very distant past—­Tom Hescott, who is now gazing at her with a most profound regard, all his soul in his eyes, oblivious of the fact that two pairs of eyes, at all events, are regarding him very curiously.

    “Hena, Dena, Dina, Dus.”

“Good heavens!” interrupts Mr. Gower, with extravagant admiration.  “What command of language!  I”—­to miss Hescott—­“didn’t know she was a linguist, did you?”

    “Calto, Wheela, Kila, Kus.”

“Oh, I say!” murmurs Mr. Gower faintly.  “It can’t be right, can it, to say ‘cuss words’ at us like that?  Oh, really, Rylton, would you mind if I retired?”

    “Hot pan, Mustard, Jan,
    Tiddledum, taddledum, twenty-one,
    You raise up the latch, and walk straight out.”

The last word falls on Tom Hescott.  “Out” comes to him.

“There, Tom!  You must be blindfolded,” says Tita delightfully.  “Who’s got a big handkerchief?”

“I wouldn’t stand that, Hescott, if I were you,” says Colonel Neilson, laughing.

“What is it?” asks Tom, who is a little abstracted.

“Nothing much,” says Mrs. Chichester mischievously.  “Except that Lady Rylton says your head is so big that she has sent to the housekeeper for a young sheet to tie it up in.”

Hescott smiles.  He can well afford his smile, his head being wonderfully handsome, not too small, but slender and beautifully formed.

“Give me yours,” says Tita, thrusting her hand into her husband’s pocket and pulling out his handkerchief.

The little familiar action sends a sharp pang through Mrs. Bethune’s heart.

“Now, Tom, come and be decorated,” cries Tita.  Hescott advances to her, and stops as if waiting.  “Ah!” cries she, “do you imagine I could ever get up there!”

She raises both her arms to their fullest height, which hardly brings her pretty hands even to a level with his forehead.  She stands so for a moment, laughing at him through the gracefully uplifted arms.  It is a coquettish gesture, though certainly innocent, and nobody, perhaps, would have thought anything of it but for the quick, bright light that springs into Hescott’s eyes.  So she might stand if she were about to fling her arms around his neck.

“Down on your knees,” cries Tita, giving herself the airs of a little queen.

Hescott drops silently on to them.  He has never once removed his gaze from hers.  Such a strange gaze!  One or two of the men present grow amused, all the women interested.  Margaret Knollys makes an involuntary step forward, and then checks herself.