Duane laughed:  “Of course I am, you old reptile-hunting, butterfly-chasing antediluvian!  But, come on; Byzantium is gorging its diamond-swathed girth yonder with salad and champagne; and I’m hungry, even if Kathleen isn’t——­”

“I am!” she exclaimed indignantly.  “Scott, can’t you find Naida and Geraldine?  Duane and I will keep a table until you return——­”

“I’ll find them,” said Duane; and he walked off among the noisy, laughing groups, his progress greeted uproariously from table to table.  He found Naida and Bunbury Gray, and they at once departed for the rendezvous indicated.

“Geraldine was here a little while ago,” said Gray, “but she walked to the lake with Jack Dysart.  My, but she’s hitting it up,” he added admiringly.

“Hitting it up?” repeated Duane.

“For a girl who never does, I mean.  I imagine that she’s a novice with champagne.  Champagne and Geraldine make a very fetching combination, I can tell you.”

“She took no more than I,” observed Naida with a shrug; “one solitary glass.  If a girl happens to be high strung and ventures to laugh a little, some wretched man is sure to misunderstand!  Bunny, you’re a gadabout!”

She made her way out from the maze of tables, Bunny following, somewhat abashed; and Duane walked toward the shore, where dozens of lantern-hung canoes bobbed, and the pasteboard cylinders of Bengal fire had burned to smouldering sparks.

In the dim light he came on the people he was looking for, seated on the rocks.  Dysart, at her feet, was speaking in an undertone; Geraldine, partly turned away from him, hands clasped around her knees, was staring steadily across the water.

Neither rose as he came up; Dysart merely became mute; Geraldine looked around with a start; her lips parted in a soundless, mechanical greeting, then the flush in her cheeks brightened; and as she rose, Dysart got onto his feet and stood silently facing the new arrival.

“I said after the third dance, you know,” she observed with an assumed lightness that did not deceive him.  And, as he made no answer, he saw the faint flicker of fright in her eyes and the lower lip quiver.

He said pleasantly, controlling his voice:  “Isn’t this after the third dance?  You are to be my partner for supper, I think.”

“A long time after; and I’ve already sat at Belshazzar’s feast, thank you.  I couldn’t very well starve waiting for you, could I?” And she forced a smile.

“Nevertheless, I must claim your promise,” he said.

There was a silence; she stood for a moment gazing at nothing, with the same bright, fixed smile, then turned and glanced at Dysart.  The glance was his dismissal and he knew it.

“If I must give you up,” he said cheerfully, at his ease, “please pronounce sentence.”

“I am afraid you really must, Mr. Dysart.”

There was another interval of constraint; then Dysart spoke.  His self-possession was admirable, his words perfectly chosen, his exit in faultless taste.