“A gentleman who is going to have the biggest lesson of his life,” she answered ominously, and the man laughed. He knew Lady Cynthia—and he knew Lady Cynthia’s temper when it was roused. But for once he was wrong in his diagnosis; the outward and visible were there all right—the inward and mental state of affairs in keeping with them was not. For the first time in her life Lady Cynthia felt at a loss. Her partners found her _distraite_ and silent; as a matter of fact she was barely conscious of their existence. And the more she lashed at herself mentally, the more confused did she get. It was preposterous, impossible. Why should she cut Tubby Dawlish to dance with a crank who kept dogs? A crank, moreover, who openly avowed that his object was to see if she could dance. Every now and then she saw him lounging by the door watching her. She knew he was watching her, though she gave no sign of being aware of his existence. And all the while Number 9 grew inexorably nearer. Dance indeed! She would show him how she could dance. And as a result she fell into the deadly fault of trying. No perfect dancer ever _tries_ to dance; they just dance. And Lady Cynthia knew that better than most people. Which made her fury rise still more against the man standing just outside the door smoking a cigarette. A thousand times—no; she would not cut Tubby. And then she realised that people were moving in to supper; that the 8 was being taken down from the band platform—that 9 was being put up. And she realised that Desmond Brooke the Hermit was crossing the room towards her; was standing by her side while Tubby—like an outraged terrier—was glaring at him across her. “This is mine, old thing,” spluttered Tubby. “Number 9.” “I think not,” said the Hermit quietly. “I fixed Number 9 especially with Lady Cynthia yesterday.” She hesitated—and was lost. “I’m sorry, Tubby,” she said a little weakly. “I forgot.” Not a trace of triumph showed on the Hermit’s face, as he gravely watched the indignant back of his rival retreating towards the door: not a trace of expression showed on his face as he turned to the girl. “You’ve been trying to-night, Lady Cynthia,” he said gravely. “Please don’t—this time. It’s a wonderful tune this—half waltz, half tango. It was lucky finding Lopez conducting: he has played for me before. And I want you just to forget everything except the smell of the passion flowers coming in through the open windows, and the thrumming of the guitars played by the natives under the palm-trees.” His eyes were looking into hers, and suddenly she drew a deep breath. Things had got beyond her.