‘Miss Grayling!’

’I understand that it was an impertinence on my part to volunteer assistance which was unasked; you have made that sufficiently plain.’

‘I assure you—­’

’Pray don’t.  Of course, if it had been Miss Lindon it would have been different; she would at least have received a civil answer.  But we are not all Miss Lindon.’

I was aghast.  The outburst was so uncalled for,—­I had not the faintest notion what I had said or done to cause it; she was in such a surprising passion—­and it suited her!—­I thought I had never seen her look prettier,—­I could do nothing else but stare.  So she went on,—­with just as little reason.

’Here is someone coming to claim this dance,—­I can’t throw all my partners over.  Have I offended you so irremediably that it will be impossible for you to dance with me again?’

‘Miss Grayling!—­I shall be only too delighted.’  She handed me her card.  ‘Which may I have?’

’For your own sake you had better place it as far off as you possibly can.’

‘They all seem taken.’

’That doesn’t matter; strike off any name you please, anywhere and put your own instead.’

It was giving me an almost embarrassingly free hand.  I booked myself for the next waltz but two—­who it was who would have to give way to me I did not trouble to inquire.

‘Mr Atherton!—­is that you?’

It was,—­it was also she.  It was Marjorie!  And so soon as I saw her I knew that there was only one woman in the world for me,—­the mere sight of her sent the blood tingling through my veins.  Turning to her attendant cavalier, she dismissed him with a bow.

‘Is there an empty chair?’

She seated herself in the one Miss Grayling had just vacated.  I sat down beside her.  She glanced at me, laughter in her eyes.  I was all in a stupid tremblement.

’You remember that last night I told you that I might require your friendly services in diplomatic intervention?’ I nodded,—­I felt that the allusion was unfair.  ’Well, the occasion’s come,—­or, at least, it’s very near.’  She was still,—­and I said nothing to help her.  ‘You know how unreasonable papa can be.’

I did,—­never a more pig-headed man in England than Geoffrey Lindon,—­or, in a sense, a duller.  But, just then, I was not prepared to admit it to his child.

‘You know what an absurd objection he has to—­Paul.’

There was an appreciative hesitation before she uttered the fellow’s Christian name,—­when it came it was with an accent of tenderness which stung me like a gadfly.  To speak to me—­of all men,—­of the fellow in such a tone was—­like a woman.

‘Has Mr Lindon no notion of how things stand between you?’

’Except what he suspects.  That is just where you are to come in, papa thinks so much of you—­I want you to sound Paul’s praises in his ear—­to prepare him for what must come.’  Was ever rejected lover burdened with such a task?  Its enormity kept me still.  ’Sydney, you have always been my friend,—­my truest, dearest friend.  When I was a little girl you used to come between papa and me, to shield me from his wrath.  Now that I am a big girl I want you to be on my side once more, and to shield me still.’