"Oh! but you must see what we can produce in the way of beauty, even if you don't want to dance. All this lot here are nothing compared with——" He began to reel off names with impudent comments on each.
Philip paid small attention, till he became aware that the chatterbox was describing with enthusiasm the charms of a particular lady, over whom, he asserted, the whole place was crazy; the name came to his ears with the effect of a pistol shot....
He stammered out: "Who—who did you say—Mrs.—Mrs. Crayfield?"
"Yes, Mrs. Crayfield. She's the rage, absolutely divine. She and her friend Mrs. Matthews carry everything before them; not that Mrs. M. can compare with Mrs. C., though little Mrs. M. is fetching enough in her own way. I might manage to introduce you. I'll try, if you like, but they're in the General's set, and that's rather a close preserve. The old boy fancies himself no end with Mrs. C.; and young Nash, his aide-de-camp, poodles for Mrs. Matthews, so it's very convenient all round."
Flint writhed in silence. Was there another Mrs. Crayfield? Soon he would know, and he tried to be deaf to the rattle of this jackanapes.
Joining the tail of the crowd that surged into the ballroom after dinner, he took up a position against the whitewashed wall that was decorated with flimsy festoons of pink and blue muslin, and watched the revellers filling their programmes, chaffing, laughing. What fools they looked! How could grown-up people be so idiotic.... Yet, in justice, he reminded himself that the majority of them must have endured the hardships inseparable from exile, trials of climate, and sickness, and separation, even actual danger to life and person; that they would go back to these conditions, grumbling no doubt, but refreshed and strengthened to endure them again by such frivolities, this pathetic aping of "smart society" that would be regarded with contemptuous amusement by its superior prototype at home. How Dorothy Baker would have censured the scene, simply because it was laid in India, where, of course, none of her compatriots deserved, or should desire, frivolous recreation! Not one of these merrymakers but would face death without hesitation should the necessity arise; and in a community all more or less of one class there was bound to be scandal, with far less reason very often than in their own country, where wickedness could be hidden successfully.... He almost forgave the harmless enough gossip he had heard at the dinner table, even endeavoured to tolerate his would-be friend who buzzed round him, so important as "one in the know," still offering introductions.
"Little Miss Green, now—that girl over there dressed as a butterfly? Not much to look at, I grant you. With her figure she ought to have gone as a blue-bottle, but she can dance, and first go-off in a place like this you have to take what you can get. She and her sisters rely on the new-comers, thankful for any kind of partners; sensible girls! Easy enough to drop them when you get into the swim. Or there's Mrs. Bray; only her husband's jealous. Of course they're known as the donkeys. He won't let her dance with anyone more than once. There was a row at the last Cinderella——"
Flint bestirred himself. "Please don't trouble. I don't want to dance. I'll just look on for a bit." He nodded a polite but determined dismissal, and was turning away when his tormentor exclaimed:
"Ah! Here we are! Now look. Here she comes, the General in tow, of course, and half a dozen other adorers. She's a fine hand at driving a team!"
Flint held his breath, his heart seemed to rise in his throat as the crowd parted slightly and a group came through one of the doorways. To the swing of a waltz he saw Stella—yes, Stella—advancing down the long, shining floor of the ballroom, radiant, light-hearted, attended by a little court of men mostly in uniform. He could not have told how she was dressed, he merely had an impression of floating pink drapery, gleams of silver; she looked to him taller, less girlish, in a way changed; her bearing held a gay confidence.... How different from his last sight of her—a wan, despairing figure, huddled weeping in a chair! She had forgotten him; their love had been but an episode in her young life, while for his part how he had suffered!—sacrificed so much. He ought to have expected it, should have realised that, child as she was, her heart must heal quickly from a wound that, though painful enough no doubt at the time, had not gone deep. Youth had asserted its claim; pleasure, social success, admiration, had consoled her successfully. He strove for her sake to feel glad, to stem the storm of rage and self-pity that seized him. Devil take the handsome, elderly satyr who was speaking in her ear.... She was smiling at him; it was unbearable. Now she was hidden by the whirling, throng. He waited, morose and miserable, planning to leave the bright scene before she should discover his presence, to clear out of Surima at dawn, and go where he could assert his claim to advancement, pick up the threads of ambition, push and trample and fight his way fiercely to the top. It was not too late, the way was still open....