“Pretty dear,” she said. “Here you are at last. There are a lot of boys with their programmes half empty till you come, and my Charles, too. Not that he’s much for dancing. I’ve told him he must look after the ugly ones. We’re going to have a quadrille for your aunts’ sake!” And then, whispering, she asked, “What do you think of it? I said if we had it at all, we’d have it good.” “It’s gorgeous!” Henrietta said, and off the stage she had never seen a grander spectacle. The platform at the end of the room was banked with flowers and behind them uniformed and much-moustached musicians played with ardour, with rapture, their eyes closing sentimentally in the choicest passages. Baskets of flowers hung from the chandeliers, the floor was polished to the slipperiness of ice and Mrs. Batty, on her hospitable journeys to and fro, was in constant danger of a fall. The society of Radstowe, all in new garments, appeared to Henrietta of a dazzling brilliance, but she stood easily, holding her head high, as though she were well used to this kind of glory. Looking round, she saw Francis Sales leaning against a wall, talking to his partner and smiling with unnecessary amiability. A flame of jealousy flickered hotly through her body. How could he smile like that? Why did he not come to her? And then, in the pride of her secret love, she remembered that he dare not show his eagerness. They belonged to each other, they were alone in their love, and all these people, talking, laughing, fluttering fans, thinking themselves of immense importance, had no real existence. He and she alone of all that company existed with a fierceness that changed the sensuous dance-music into the cry of essential passion. Young men approached her and wrote their initials on her programme which was already marked with little crosses against the numbers she had promised to Francis Sales. Charles Batty, rather hot, anxious and glowering, arrived too late. His angry disgust, his sense of desertion, were beyond words. He stared at her. “And my flowers,” he demanded. “Charles, don’t shout.” “Where are my flowers? I sent some—roses and lilies and maidenhair. Where are they?” “I haven’t seen them.” “Ah, I suppose you didn’t like them, but the girl in the shop told me they would be all right. How should I know?” “I haven’t seen them,” she repeated. Over his shoulder she saw the figure of Francis Sales coming towards her. “I ordered them yesterday,” Charles continued loudly. “I’ll kill that girl. I’ll go at once.” “The shop will be shut,” Henrietta reminded him. “Oh, do be quiet, Charles.” She turned with a smile for Francis. “She hasn’t a dance left,” Charles said. “Mr. Sales took the precaution of booking them in advance,” Henrietta said lightly, and with a miserable gesture Charles went off, muttering, “I hadn’t thought of that. Why didn’t some one tell me?” § 5