“Too much punch. My eyes feel rather watery, and of course we all fortified ourselves with cocktails at my rooms. I wish you’d let me teach you this dance.” “Well, I won’t. Run along and trot. You must have asked Joan Ryder, for she’s watching you and is the only girl not dancing.” “So I did. But I hate to leave you alone.” “I expected to be alone. And I’m going into the drawing-room to rest. My heels are higher than usual and my feet ache.” She made her way past the trotting couples—they had had no time to learn even polkas and waltzes—and entered the drawing-room. It was softly lit with wax candles, and looked, she thought, much as it must have done when the costumes worn tonight were new. The paneled walls reflected the blades of yellow light, for Topper had polished them vigorously, and she had a fancy that the stately old pieces of furniture had come to life themselves and wore an air of expectancy. She removed her slippers and elevated her feet to a stool. She was about to light a cigarette, but shrugged her shoulders. Why spoil the picture? Get out of her part? She had surrendered to illusion out there in the hall. She wondered idly if another Gita Carteret, long forgotten, had taken possession of her. Then she frowned and jerked her shoulders. Those old Gitas at her age had either been married or were in love with a “swain”—someone as good-looking as Geoffrey Pelham, no doubt; and, if permitted a moment of retirement, would have been dreaming of his perfections, indulging in romantic musings. She wondered if any of the girls would fall in love with him tonight. Polly had evidently marked him for her own, but Polly was as cold-blooded as Eustace; she would flirt with him desperately tonight and forget his existence on the morrow. Her mind swung uneasily to Eustace. He looked detestable in that puffed wig and with punch relaxing the muscles of his face. Like quite another person. It was all very well to act up to his character as a beefy and dissipated old governor but she’d warn him at the end of this dance that if he didn’t let the punch-bowl alone she’d cut out one part of the program. And she’d never marry him in that wig. She moved restlessly in her chair and beat with her heels on the stool. Once more she felt an overwhelming reluctance to marry. Of course she had not changed her mind, and of course the Eustace of five months could not be obliterated by the caricature of a night. He was a dear and had inspired in her the deepest affection she had felt since the death of her mother; had, in a measure, taken her place. And he could give her the large free life she craved. But two or three months hence would be time enough. . . . Moreover . . . she dimly felt she was outraging the girls who had left this old manor with their husbands, before her. . . . Who had worn this dress of gold tissue? she wondered. A young married woman, probably, with a baby or two!