She turned in pretty apology to Philip. "Don't think me too bold," she seemed to be pitching her voice high of intention, "perhaps you've forgotten me? But I remember you!" She shot him a meaning glance, and he could not but take the hint.
He feigned pleasure. "This is a surprise! But when we last met you weren't a gypsy, or—or a Spanish dancer—which must be my excuse for not recognising you at once." He offered her his arm.
With a charming smile she waved away her late partner, a diffident young soldier easily shelved for the moment; and talking gaily of the dance, of the dresses, of anything, she guided Philip to the platform, of which the front seats were filled with chaperones and partnerless girls. Well at the back, screened by this rampart of female forms, stood a sofa, safe from listening ears. They took possession of it.
"Neatly done!" exclaimed Mrs. Matthews, sinking to her seat.
"Very," returned Philip, "but I don't quite understand——"
"You are Mr. Flint, Mr. Philip Flint?"
"Certainly. That is my name."
"Well, Mrs. Crayfield has gone home."
"Oh? Wasn't she feeling fit?" he inquired, apparently unmoved.