Mrs. Chetwinde wandered away, insouciant and observant as ever.  Even at her own parties she always had an air of faintly detached indifference, never bothered about how “it” was “going.”  If it chose to stop it could, and her guests must put up with it.

When she left him Dion hesitated.  Mrs. Clarke had just seen him and sent him a grave nod of recognition.  Should he go to her?  But the fair young man was still at her side, was still, with his weak red mouth, talking into her ear.  Dion felt a strange distaste as he saw those moving lips under the brushed-up, almost ridiculously small, golden mustache; and just as he was conscious of this distaste Mrs. Clarke got rid of the young man, and spoke to a woman.  Then she moved forward slowly.  Mr. Chetwinde spoke to her, moving his ample fan-shaped beard, which always looked Assyrian, though he was profoundly English and didn’t know it.  She drew nearer to Dion as she answered Mr. Chetwinde, but in a wholly unconscious manner.  To-night she looked more haggard even than usual, no doubt because of the journey from Paris.  But Mrs. Chetwinde had once said of her:  “Cynthia is made of iron.”  Could that be true?  She was quite close to Dion now, and he was aware of a strange faint perfume which reminded him of Stamboul; and he realized here in Lowndes Square that Stamboul was genuinely fascinating, was much more fascinating than he had realized when he was in it.

Mrs. Clarke passed him without looking at him, and he felt sure quite unconscious of his nearness to her.  Evidently she had forgotten all about him.  Just after she had gone by he decided that of course he ought to go and speak to her, and that to-night he must introduce Rosamund to her.  Not to do so would really be rude.  Daventry was not there to be chivalrous.  The illness of Beattie, and doubtless his own distress at the loss of his unborn child, had kept him away.  Dion thought that he would be unchivalrous if he now neglected to make a point of speaking to Mrs. Clarke and of introducing his wife to her.

Having made up his mind on this he turned to follow Mrs. Clarke, and at once saw that Esme Darlington, that smoother of difficult social places, was before him.  A little way off he saw Mr. Darlington, with Rosamund well but delicately in hand, making for Mrs. Clarke somewhat with the gait of Agag.  In a moment the thing was done.  The two women were speaking to each other, and Rosamund had sent to Mrs. Clarke one of her inquiring looks.  Then they sat down together on that red sofa to which Mrs. Clarke had led Dion for his first conversation with her.  Esme Darlington remained standing before it.  The full acquaintance was joined at last.