“Lot of debutantes here—­the whole year’s output,” he said vaguely.  “What a noisy supper-room—­eh, Mallett?  I’m rather afraid champagne is responsible for some of it.”

Duane started forward, halted.

“Did you say Mrs. Severn wants Miss Seagrave?”

“Y—­yes....  I’d better go and tell her, hadn’t I?”

He flushed heavily, but made no movement to follow Geraldine and Dysart, who had now entered the conservatory and disappeared.

For a full minute, uncomfortably silent, the two men stood side by side; then Duane said in a constrained voice: 

“I’ll speak to Miss Seagrave, if you’ll find her brother and Mrs. Severn”; and walked slowly toward the palm-set rotunda.

When he found them—­and he found them easily, for Geraldine’s overexcited laughter warned and guided him—­Dysart, her fan in his hands, looked up at Duane intensely annoyed, and the young girl tossed away a half-destroyed rose and glanced up, the laughter dying out from lips and eyes.

“Kathleen sent for you,” said Duane drily.

“I’ll come in a minute, Duane.”

“In a moment,” repeated Dysart insolently, and turned his back.

The colour surged into Mallett’s face; he turned sharply on his heel.

“Wait!” said Geraldine; “Duane—­do you hear me?”

“I’ll take you back,” began Dysart, but she passed in front of him and laid her hand on Mallett’s arm.

“Won’t you wait for me, Duane?”

And suddenly things seemed to be as they had been in their childhood, the resurgence swept them both back to the old and stormy footing again.

“Duane!”

“What?”

“I tell you to wait for me—­here!” She stamped her foot.

He scowled—­but waited.  She turned on Dysart: 

“Good-night!”—­offering her hand with decision.

Dysart began:  “But I had expected——­”

“Good-night!”

Dysart stared, took the offered hand, hesitated, started to speak, thought better of it, made a characteristically graceful obeisance, and an excellent exit, all things considered.

Geraldine drew a deep breath, moved forward through the flower-set dimness a step or two, halted, and, as Mallett came up, passed her arm through his.

“Duane,” she said, “the champagne has gone to my head.”

“Nonsense!”

“It has!  My cheeks are queer—­the skin fits too tight.  My legs don’t belong to me—­but they’ll do.”

She laughed and turned toward him; her feverish breath touched his cheek.

“My first dinner!  Isn’t it disgraceful?  But how could I know?”

“You mustn’t let it scare you.”

“It doesn’t.  I don’t care.  I knew something would go wrong.  I—­the truth is, that I don’t know how to act—­how to accept my liberty.  I don’t know how to use it.  I’m a perfect fool....  Do you think Kathleen will notice this?  Isn’t it terrible!  She never dreamed I would touch any wine.  Do I look—­queer?”