But Dysart could no more avoid making eyes at anything in petticoats than he could help the tenderness of his own smile or the caressing cadence of his voice, or the subtle, indefinite something in him which irritated men but left few women indifferent and some greatly perturbed as he strolled along on his amusing journey through the world.

He was strolling on now, having managed to leave Sylvia planted; and presently, without taking any particular trouble to find Geraldine, discovered her eventually as the centre of a promising circle of men, very young men and very old men—­nothing medium and desirable as yet.

For a while, amused, Dysart watched her at her first party.  Clearly she was inexperienced; she let these men have their own way and their own say; she was not handling them skilfully; yet there seemed to be a charm about this young girl that detached man after man from the passing throng and added them to her circle—­which had now become a half circle, completely cornering her.

Animated, shyly confident, brilliant-eyed, and flushed with the excitement of attracting so much attention, she was beginning to lose her head a little—­just a little.  Dysart noticed it in her nervous laughter; in a slight exaggeration of gesture with fan and flowers; in the quick movement of her restless little head, as though it were incumbent upon her to give to every man confronting her his own particular modicum of attention—­which was not like a debutante, either; and Dysart realised that she was getting on.

So he sauntered up, breaking through the circle, and reminded Geraldine of a dance she had not promised him.

She knew she had not promised, but she was quite ready to give it—­had already opened her lips to assent—­when a young man, passing, swung around abruptly as though to speak to her, hesitating as Geraldine’s glance encountered his without recognition.

But, as he started to move on, she suddenly knew him; and at the same moment Kathleen’s admonition rang in her ears.  Her own voice drowned it.

“Oh, Duane!” she exclaimed, stretching out her hand across Dysart’s line of advance.

“You are Geraldine Seagrave, are you not?” he asked smilingly, retaining her hand in such a manner as practically to compel her to step past Dysart toward him.

“Of course I am.  You might have known me had you been amiable enough to appear at my coming out.”

He laughed easily, still retaining her hand and looking down at her from his inch or two of advantage.  Then he casually inspected Dysart, who, not at all pleased, returned his gaze with a careless unconcern verging on offence.  Few men cared for Dysart on first inspection—­or on later acquaintance; Mallett was no exception.

Geraldine said, with smiling constraint: 

“It has been so very jolly to see you again.”  And withdrew her hand, adding:  “I hope—­some time——­”