“I am so glad you came, Duane.  I’ve really missed you.”  And sweeping the little circle with an eager glance; “You know everybody, I think.  The Dysarts have not yet appeared, and Scott is down at the Gate Lodge.  Come and sit by me, Duane.”

Two or three girls extended their hands to him—­Sylvia Quest, shy and quiet; Muriel Wye, white-skinned, black-haired, red-lipped, red-cheeked, with eyes like melted sapphires and the expression of a reckless saint; and his blond sister, Naida, who had arrived that afternoon from the Tappans’ at Iron Hill, across the mountain.

Delancy Grandcourt, uncouth and highly coloured, stood up to shake hands; Bunbury Gray, a wiry, bronzed little polo-playing squadron man, hailed Duane with enthusiasm.

“Awfully glad to see you, Bunny,” said Duane, who liked him immensely—­“oh, how are you?” offering his hand to Reginald Wye, a hard-riding, hard-drinking, straight-shooting young man, who knew nothing on earth except what concerned sport and the drama.  He and his sister of the sapphire eyes and brilliant cheeks were popularly known as the Pink ’uns.

Jack Dysart arrived presently, graceful, supple, always smilingly, elaborate of manner, apparently unconscious that he was not cordially admired by the men who returned his greeting.  Later, Rosalie, came, enchantingly demure in her Greuze-like beauty.  Chardin might have made her; possibly Fragonard.  She did not resemble the Creator’s technique.  Dresden teacups tinkled, ice clattered in tall glasses, the two fountains splashed away bravely, prettily modulated voices made agreeable harmony on the terrace, blending with the murmur of leaves overhead as the wind stirred them to gossip.  Over all spread a calm evening sky.

“Tea, dear?” asked Geraldine, glancing up at Mrs. Dysart.  Rosalie shook her head with a smile.

Lang, the second man, was flitting about, busy with a decanter of Scotch.  A moment later Rosalie signified her preference for it with a slight nod.  Geraldine, who sat watching indifferently the filling of Mrs. Dysart’s glass, suddenly leaned back and turned her head sharply, as though the aroma from glass and decanter were distasteful to her.  In a few minutes she rose, walked over to the parapet, and stood leaning against the coping, apparently absorbed in the landscape.

The sun hung low over the flat little tree-clad mountains, which the lake, now inlaid with pink and gold, reflected.  A few fallow deer moved quietly down there, ruddy spots against the turf.

Duane, carrying his glass with him, rose and stepped across the strip of grass to her side, and, glancing askance at her, was on the point of speaking when he discovered that her eyes were shut and her face colourless and rigid.

“What is it?” he asked surprised.  “Are you feeling faint, Geraldine?”

She opened her eyes, velvet dark and troubled, but did not turn around.

“It’s nothing,” she answered calmly.  “I was thinking of several things.”