The music for the next waltz was just beginning when she returned to her pillar. No eager partner awaited her, which was unusual; and Joan glanced at her programme. She bit her lip.

"Number eight," she said to herself. "Joey, my child, he has scored you off--and you deserve it!"

This cryptic utterance had reference to Mr. Hugh Marrable, to whom it may be remembered this particular dance had been offered, much as a bone is thrown to a dog, on the lawn at Manors three days before.

Hughie's subsequent demeanour had piqued his ward's curiosity. He had made no further reference to number eight, neither had he made any attempt during this evening to come up and confirm the fixture. In fact, he had not asked Joan for a dance at all, with the consequence that Miss Gaymer, who, serenely confident that her guardian would come and eat humble pie at the last moment, had kept number eight free, now found herself occupying the rather unusual _role_ of wallflower. What was more, she knew she would be unable to pick up a partner, for every available man was being worked to the last ounce, and pretty girls still sat here and there about the room, chatting with chaperons and maintaining a brave appearance of enjoyment and _insouciance_.

"I'm not going to let Hughie see me propping a wall _this_ dance," said Joan to herself with decision. "He would think I had been keeping it for him. What shall I do? Go back to the cloakroom? No; it is always full of girls without partners pretending they've just dropped in to get sewn up. I'll go to the Mayor's parlour and sit there. It's never used at these dances."

Making a mental entry on the debit side of her missing partner's ledger, Miss Gaymer retired unostentatiously from the ballroom, and turned down an unlighted pa.s.sage, which was blocked by a heavy screen marked "Private," and enc.u.mbered with rolls of carpet and superfluous furniture.

The darkened pa.s.sage was comfortably cool and peaceful after the blaze and turmoil of the field of action, and apparently had not been discovered by couples in search of seclusion. Joan was approaching the end, where she knew the door of the Mayor's parlour was situated, when she became aware of a certain subdued sound quite near her. It was a sound well calculated to catch the ear of one so tender-hearted as herself. Some one was sobbing, very wretchedly, in the darkness within a few feet of her.

Joan stopped short, a little frightened, and peered about her. Her eyes were growing accustomed to the gloom, and presently she beheld a glimmer of white almost at her knee. The glimmer outlined itself into the form of a filmy ball-dress.

Joan tackled the situation with her usual prompt.i.tude.

"I say," she said, "what's the matter? Let me help you."

The sobbing ceased, and the white figure sat up with a start.

"If you don't mind," continued Joan, "I'm going to turn up this electric light."

There was a click, and the rays of a single and rather dusty incandescent lamp illuminated the scene, and with it the slender figure, seated forlornly on a roll of red carpet, of the little lady of the forget-me-nots.

Her face was flushed with sudden shame, for her shoulders were still heaving, and her cheeks glistened with tears, the which she dabbed confusedly with a totally inadequate sc.r.a.p of pocket handkerchief.

Joan, regardless of her new frock, was down upon the dusty roll of carpet in a moment. She put her arm round the girl.

"My dear," she said authoritatively, "what is it? Tell me."

The girl told her. It was a simple story, and not altogether a novel one, but it contained the elements of tragedy for all that.

This was her coming-out ball. She pointed to her discarded bouquet lying on the grimy floor. Her father had put it into her hand, and hung a little enamel pendant round her neck, and given her a kiss,--she told her story with all a child's fidelity to detail,--and had despatched her in her brother's charge, with admonitions not to break too many hearts, on the long fourteen-mile drive to Midfield,--a period occupied in ecstatic antic.i.p.ations of the event to which she had been looking forward ever since she had put her hair up.

Her brother, on their arrival, had booked one dance with her,--subsequently cancelled with many apologies on the ground that he had just met a girl whom he simply _must_ dance with,--and introduced her to two young men whose programmes were already full; after which he had plunged into the crowd, comfortably conscious that his duty had been done, leaving his sister to stand, smiling bravely, with tingling feet and her heart in her throat, from half-past nine until a quarter-past twelve. The music was pulsing in her ears, youth and laughter were swinging easily past her--even brushing her skirt; and she was utterly and absolutely alone. She was just eighteen; she was the prettiest girl (with the possible exception of Joan Gaymer) in the room; it was her first ball--and not a man had asked her to dance. A small matter, perhaps, compared with some, but men have blown out their brains for less.

Long before she had sobbed out all her pitiful little narrative her head was on Joan's shoulder, and that mercurial young person, oblivious of everything save the fact that here was a sister in distress, was handling the situation as if she were twenty years her companion's senior instead of two.

"I stood it for nearly three hours," said the girl apologetically, "and then I--I came here."

"Well, my dear," said Joan with decision, "you aren't going to stay here any longer. You are coming straight back to the ballroom with me."

"I can't," replied the girl,--"I couldn't _bear_ it!"

"You are coming back to the ballroom with me," repeated Miss Gaymer firmly. "There are sixteen dances to go yet, and you are going to dance the soles of your slippers through, my child!"

"You are awfully kind," said the girl wistfully, "but you won't be able to find me a partner now."

"I can find you sixteen," said Joan.

The child turned wondering eyes on her, and asked a question.

"Me? Oh, I shall have a rest: I want one," replied Miss Gaymer, _splendide mendax_. "In fact, it will be a charity on your part to take them. They're all stupid, and they can't dance."

But the girl shook her head.

"You're a dear to suggest it," she said, "but it wouldn't do. Think how angry they would be, having booked a dance with Miss Gaymer, and only getting--"

"Do you know me?" asked Joan in surprise.

"Everybody knows you," said the girl.

Joan flushed rosily. It was a compliment after her own heart.

"I say, what's _your_ name?" she asked.

"Sylvia Tarrant."

Joan nodded. "I know now," she said. "You live near Gainford."

The Tarrants were new-comers. Sylvia's father was a retired sailor and a widower, and had but lately settled in the district, which would account for his daughter's want of acquaintance.

"Yes," said Sylvia. "But really, I could not take your partners. They'd be furious at getting me instead of you."

Miss Gaymer turned and scrutinised the face and figure beside her.

"All you want, my child," she said, "is a _start_. After to-night you'll never be left alone for two seconds at any ball you care to go to. In fact, I don't see how I shall ever be able to get any partners at all,"

she added plaintively.

At this idea the girl laughed and looked happier, which was just exactly what Joan meant her to do. Her spirit was returning.

Joan rose briskly.

"Now, Sylvia," she said, "I'm going to leave you for two minutes, because I want to find a man to send round and tell all my partners that you've agreed to take them on. Then I'll come back and get you started.

Just put yourself straight. There's a loose end of hair here: I'll roll it up. There! Your eyes are getting better every minute. Give your skirt a shake out, and have a look at yourself in that mirror, and you'll be simply perfect. So long!"

"There's somebody coming," said Sylvia, turning from her toilet and looking over her shoulder.

A masculine form filled the pa.s.sage. It was Hughie, who, deprived of a partner through Joan's absence,--the result of standing on his dignity in the matter of number eight,--was prowling about in search of a quiet spot where he might indulge in the luxury of a pipe.

Joan, who had forgotten all about number eight, received him with unfeigned pleasure, and hurried him back whence he came. On the way she breathlessly explained the situation to him.

"Hughie, that poor child has come here not knowing a soul, and has stood against the wall for three hours. There isn't a partner to be had for love or money at this hour, so she must just have mine. Take my programme--wait a minute, I'll fill in some of these initials--and go round to all the men whose names are on it, and tell them I'm very sorry but I've got a headache and can't dance any more to-night, but they're to come to me at once at my pillar and be introduced to a subst.i.tute I've provided for them."

"Do you think they'll exactly--_jump_ at the idea of a subst.i.tute?"

suggested Hughie mildly.