She said: "I shall be very glad to see you, Clive. There are some of your friends here, too, who will be glad to see you."

"Then I'll wait until--"

"No; I had rather meet you for the first time when others are here--if you don't mind. Do you?"

"No," he said, coolly; "I'll come."

"Now?"

"Yes, immediately."

Her heart was going at a terrific pace when she hung up the receiver.

She went to her mirror, turned on the side-lights, and looked at herself. From the front room came the sound of the dance music, a ripple or two of laughter. Welter's eager voice singing still of arms and the man.

Long she stood there, motionless, studying herself, so that, when the moment came that was coming now so swiftly upon her, she might know what she appeared like in his eyes.

All, so far, was sheer, fresh youth with her; her eyes had not lost their dewy beauty; the splendour of her hair remained unchanged. There were no lines, nothing lost, nothing hardened in contour. Clear and smooth her snowy chin; perfect, so far, the lovely throat: nothing of blemish was visible, no souvenirs of grief, of pain.

And, as she looked, and all the time she was looking, she felt, subtly, that the ordered routine of her thoughts was changing; that a transformation was beginning somewhere deep within her--a new character emerging--a personality unfamiliar, disturbing, as though not entirely to be depended on.

And in the mirror she saw her lips, scarcely parted, more vivid than she had ever seen them, and her eyes two wells of azure splendour; saw the smooth young bosom rise and fall; felt her heart, rapid, imperious, beating the "colours" into her cheeks.

Suddenly, as she stood there, she heard him come in;--heard the astonished and joyous exclamations--Cecil's bantering, cynical voice, Welter's loud welcome. She pressed both hands to her hot cheeks, stared at herself a moment, then turned and walked leisurely toward the living-room.

In her heart a voice was crying, crying: "Let the world see so that there may be no mistake! This man who was friendless is my friend. Let there be no mistake that he is more or less than that." But she only said with a quick smile, and offering her hand: "I am so glad to see you, Clive. I am so glad you came." And stood, still smiling, looking into the lean, sun-tanned face, under the concentrated eyes of her friends around them both.

For a second it was difficult for him to speak; but only she saw the slight quiver of the mouth.

"You are--quite the same," he said; "no more beautiful, no less. Time is not the essence of your contract with Venus."

"Oh, Clive! And I am twenty-four! Tell me--_are_ you a trifle grey!--just above the temples?--or is it the light?"

"He's grey," said Cecil; "don't flatter him, Athalie. And Oh, Lord, what a thinness!"

Peggy Brooks, professionally curious, said navely: "Are you still rather full of bacilli, Mr. Bailey? And would you mind if I took a drop of blood from you some day?"

"Not at all," said Clive, laughing away the strain that still fettered his speech a little. "You may have quarts if you like, Dr. Brooks."

"How was the shooting?" inquired Welter, bustling up like a judge at a bench-show when the awards are applauded.

"Oh--there was shooting--of course," said Clive with an involuntary and half-humorous glance at Captain Dane.

"Good n.i.g.g.e.r hunting," nodded Dane. "Unknown angles, Welter. You ought to run down there."

"Any incomparable Indian maidens wearing nothing but ornaments of gold?" inquired Cecil.

"That is partly true," said Clive, laughing.

"If you put a period after 'nothing,' I suppose," suggested Peggy.

"About that."

He turned to Athalie; but her silent, smiling gaze confused him so that he forgot what he had meant to say, and stood without a word amid the chatter that rose and ebbed about him.

Anne Randolph and Arthur Ensart had joined hands, their restless feet sketching the first steps of the Miraflores; and presently somebody cranked the machine.

"Come on!" said Peggy imperiously to Dane; "you've been too long in the jungle dancing with Indian maidens!"

Other people dropped in--Adele Millis, young Grismer, John Lyndhurst, Jeanne Delauny.

When Clive saw Rosalie Faithorn saunter in with James Allys he stared, but that young seceder from his own set greeted him without embarra.s.sment and lighted a cigarette.

"Where's Winifred?" she asked nonchalantly. "Still on the outs? Yes?

Why not shuffle and draw again? Winifred was always a pig."

Clive flushed at the girl's frankness although he could have expected nothing less from her.

Rosalie continued to smoke and to inspect him critically: "You're a bit seedy and a bit weedy, Clive, but you'll come around with feeding.

You're really all right. I'd have you myself if I was marrying young men these days."

"That's nice of you, Rosalie.... But I'm full of rare bacilli."

"The rarer the better--if you must have them. Give me the unusual, whether it's a disease or a gown. I believe I will take you, Clive--if you are not expected to live long."

"That's the trouble. Nothing seems to be able to get me."

Dane said as he pa.s.sed with Peggy: "He's immune, Miss Faithorn. The prettiest woman I ever saw, he side-stepped in Lima. And even then every man wanted to shoot him up because she made eyes at him."

"I think I'll go there," said Cecil. "Her name and quality if you please, Dane."

"Ask Clive," he called back.

Athalie, still smiling, said: "Shall I ask you, Clive?"

"Don't ask that South American adventurer anything," interrupted Cecil, "but come and dance this Miraflores with me, Athalie--"

"No, I don't wish to--"

"Come on! You must!"

"Oh, Cecil--please--"

But he had his way; and, as usual, everybody watched her while the charming music lasted,--Clive among the others, standing a little apart, lean, erect, his dark gaze fixed.

She came back to him after the dance, delicately flushed and a trifle breathless.

"Do you dance that in England?" she asked.

"It's danced--not at Court functions, I believe."