He, hat and overcoat surrendered, moved up the gleaming staircase.  A sound of soft music fluttered his happy temper.  Seeing his form in a mirror, he did not at once recognise himself; for his face had a high colour, with the result of making him far more comely than at ordinary times.  He stepped firmly on, delighted to be here, eager to perceive his hostess.  Mrs. Jacks, for a moment, failed to remember him; but needless to say that this did not appear in her greeting, which, as she recollected, dropped upon a tone of special friendliness.  To her, Piers Otway was the least interesting of young men; but her husband had spoken of him very favourably, and Mrs. Jacks had a fine sense of her duty on such points.  Piers was dazzled by the lady’s personal charm; her brilliantly pure complexion, her faultless shoulders and soft white arms, her pose of consummate dignity and courtesy.  Happily, his instincts and his breeding held their own against perilous circumstance; excited as he was, nothing of the cause appeared in his brief colloquy with the hostess, and he acquitted himself very creditably.  A little farther on, John Jacks advanced to him with cordial welcome.

“So glad you could come.  By the bye”—­he lowered his voice—­“if you have any trouble about trains back to Ewell, do let us put you up for the night.  Just stay or not, as you like.  Delighted if you do.”

Piers replied that he was staying at his brother’s.  Whereupon John Jacks became suddenly thoughtful, said, “Ah, I see,” and with a pleasant smile turned to someone else.  Only when it was too late did Piers remember that Mr. Jacks possibly had a private opinion about Jerome Otway’s elder sons.  He wished, above all things, that he could have accepted the invitation.  But doubtless it would be repeated some other time.

As he looked about him at the gathering guests, he recalled his depression this afternoon in Bryanston Square, and it seemed to him so ridiculous that he could have laughed aloud.  As if he would not have other chances of calling upon Irene Derwent!  Ah, but, to be sure, he must provide himself with visiting-cards.  A trifling point, but he had since reflected on it with some annoyance.

A hand was extended to him, a pink, delicate, but shapely hand, which his eyes fell upon as he stood in half-reverie.  He exchanged civilities with Arnold Jacks.

“I think some particular friends of yours are here,” said Arnold.  “The Derwents——­”

“Indeed!  Are they?  Miss Derwent?”

Piers’ vivacity caused the other to examine him curiously.

“I only learned a day or two ago,” Arnold pursued, “that you knew each other.”

“I knew Miss Derwent.  I haven’t met Dr. Derwent or her brother.  Are they here yet?  I wish you would introduce me.”

Again Arnold, smiling discreetly, scrutinised the young man’s countenance, and for an instant seemed to reflect as he glanced around.