Mr. and Mrs. Burroughs, as well as the Hon. William Moore, had come from Butte to attend the brilliant society function. Other acquaintances who now lived at the capital were among the guests whom Danvers recognized. His sister he seldom saw, and the lack of any common interest between them made it possible to meet her husband in only the most formal way.
Presently he saw Winifred Blair at the salad table, who, chancing to look up from her task, smiled invitingly.
"May I not serve you with salad?" she asked, as he approached.
"If you will make the dressing," recalling their lunch of the late summer.
"It is already dressed," laughed the girl.
"Then you will let me get you some punch; come with me for it."
She was perishing of thirst (by her own statement), and Danvers finding some one to take her place for a time, discovered a quiet corner of the library past which swept the tide of callers. Hither he enticed Miss Blair, and soon brought the refreshing drink. She sank on the window couch.
"How nice to be looked after," she said, gratefully. "I believe that you knew I was tired of the silly things one must say to men whom one never expects—or wants—to meet again."
"Never say silly things to me or I shall think I am in the category."
"Very well, I will not. I've always had to be to other people what they wanted me to be—what they expected. Somehow, with you—I am myself."