So late was it that most of the girls had no vacancies on their programmes.  But Jeannette Willard was both a diplomat and a bit of a despot, socially, and several of the young eligibles relinquished, with surprisingly good grace, so Hal felt, their partners, in favor of the newcomer.  He did not then know the tradition of Worthington’s best set, that hospitality to a stranger well vouched for should be the common concern of all.  Very pleasant and warming he found this atmosphere, after his years abroad, with its happy, well-bred frankness, its open comradeship, and obvious, “first-name” intimacies.  But though every one he met seemed ready to extend to him, as a friend of the Willards, a ready welcome, he could not but feel himself an outsider, and at the conclusion of a dance he drew back into a side passage, to watch for a time.

Borne on a draught of air from some invisibly opening door behind him there came to his nostrils the fairy-spice of the arbutus-scent.  He turned quickly, and saw her almost at his shoulder, the girl of the lustrous face.  Behind her was Festus Willard.

“Ah, there you are, Surtaine,” he said.  “I’ve been looking for you to present you to Miss Elliot.  Esme, this is Mr. Harrington Surtaine.”

She neither bowed nor moved in acknowledgment of Hal’s greeting, but looked at him with still, questioning eyes.  The springtide hue of the wild flower at her breast was matched in her cheek.  Her head was held high, bringing out the pure and lovely line of chin and throat.  To Hal it seemed that he had never seen anything so beautiful and desirable.

“Is it a bet?” Festus Willard’s quiet voice was full of amusement.  “Have you laid a wager as to which will keep silent longest?”

At this, Hal recovered himself, though stumblingly.

“‘Fain would I speak,’” he paraphrased, “‘but that I fear to—­to—­to—­’”

“Stutter,” suggested Willard, with solicitous helpfulness.  The girl broke into a little trill of mirth, too liquid for laughter; being rather the sound of a brooklet chuckling musically over its private delectations.

“If I could have a dance with you,” suggested Hal, “I’m sure it would help my aphasia.”

“I’m afraid,” she began dubiously, “that—­No; here’s one just before supper.  If you haven’t that—­”

“No:  I haven’t,” said Hal hastily.  “It’s awfully good of you—­and lucky for me.”

“I’ll be with Mrs. Willard,” said the girl, nodding him a cheerful farewell.

Just what or who his partners for the next few dances were, Hal could not by any effort recall the next day.  He was conscious, on the floor, only of an occasional glimpse of her, a fugitive savor of the wildwood fragrance, and then she had disappeared.

Later, as he returned from a talk with Festus Willard outside, he became aware of the challenge of deep-hued, velvety eyes, regarding him with a somewhat petulant expression, and recognized his acquaintance of the motor car and the railroad terminal.