Harry Wethermill was looking carefully after Celia, as a good lover should.  He had, it seemed, no eyes for any one else; and it was not until a minute or two had passed that the girl herself noticed that Mme. Dauvray was not with them.

“We will find her easily,” said Harry.

“Of course,” replied Celia.

“There is, after all, no hurry,” said Wethermill, with a laugh; “and perhaps she was not unwilling to leave us together.”

Celia dimpled to a smile.

“Mme. Dauvray is kind to me,” she said, with a very pretty timidity.

“And yet more kind to me,” said Wethermill in a low voice which brought the blood into Celia’s cheeks.

But even while he spoke he soon caught sight of Mme. Dauvray standing by one of the tables; and near to her was Adele Tace.  Adele had not yet made Mme. Dauvray’s acquaintance; that was evident.  She was apparently unaware of her; but she was gradually edging towards her.  Wethermill smiled, and Celia caught the smile.

“What is it?” she asked, and her head began to turn in the direction of Mme. Dauvray.

“Why, I like your frock—­that’s all,” said Wethermill at once; and Celia’s eyes went down to it.

“Do you?” she said, with a pleased smile.  It was a dress of dark blue which suited her well.  “I am glad.  I think it is pretty.”  And they passed on.

Wethermill stayed by the girl’s side throughout the evening.  Once again he saw Mme. Dauvray and Adele Tace.  But now they were together; now they were talking.  The first step had been taken.  Adele Tace had scraped acquaintance with Mme. Dauvray.  Celia saw them almost at the same moment.

“Oh, there is Mme. Dauvray,” she cried, taking a step towards her.

Wethermill detained the girl.

“She seems quite happy,” he said; and, indeed, Mme. Dauvray was talking volubly and with the utmost interest, the jewels sparkling about her neck.  She raised her head, saw Celia, nodded to her affectionately, and then pointed her out to her companion.  Adele Tace looked the girl over with interest and smiled contentedly.  There was nothing to be feared from her.  Her youth, her very daintiness, seemed to offer her as the easiest of victims.

“You see Mme. Dauvray does not want you,” said Harry Wethermill.  “Let us go and play chemin-de-fer”; and they did, moving off into one of the further rooms.

It was not until another hour had passed that Celia rose and went in search of Mme. Dauvray.  She found her still talking earnestly to Adele Tace.  Mme. Dauvray got up at once.

“Are you ready to go, dear?” she asked, and she turned to Adele Tace.  “This is Celie, Mme. Rossignol,” she said, and she spoke with a marked significance and a note of actual exultation in her voice.

Celia, however, was not unused to this tone.  Mme. Dauvray was proud of her companion, and had a habit of showing her off, to the girl’s discomfort.  The three women spoke a few words, and then Mme. Dauvray and Celia left the rooms and walked to the entrance-doors.  But as they walked Celia became alarmed.