"Who do you think is coming to-night on purpose to meet you again?"
"Tell me," he said indifferently.
"Dorothy Baker."
It was a relief to see his face light up with a certain amount of interest. "Dorothy Baker! Just fancy! And when I last saw her——"
His memory turned to an Indian junction and a native-crowded platform, a dimly lit railway carriage, and Dorothy Baker with all her wild ideas, her conceit and her flashes of humility, her freckled face and slim, long figure. "Then she knows I am at home? I'm afraid I didn't write and tell her I was coming."
"Yes, she knows, and presently she and her father will be here. This party is in your honour, dear old boy."
"Very kind of you." There was no more than politeness in his tone, but his sister observed that he looked towards the door as though watching for the arrival of Dorothy Baker.
Mr. Carmine Lake was announced, and Lady Lane-Johnson welcomed him with effusion. Sir Philip Flint glared disapproval of the celebrated artist's abundant locks and soft, tucked shirt, glared more fiercely still on the couple that followed, whose name was well known in Liberal circles, though the gentleman present was only a relative of the real culprit. The room filled quickly. Lord Redgate and his daughter were the last to arrive.
Dorothy entered swiftly, eager, animated, dressed as usual, simply but expensively. Her gown was of a soft shade of green that suited her tawny colouring. Lady Lane-Johnson thought she had never seen the girl look better—quite pretty, in spite of her strong resemblance to her father, whose irregular features and ruddy complexion she had inherited in a refined and more kindly form. Lord Redgate was an ugly man, but no one could say that his daughter was ugly or even plain.
As Lady Lane-Johnson greeted the pair Philip came forward. He was glad to see Miss Baker again, and Miss Baker made no concealment of her own delight. Her evident pleasure, though it could hardly fail to flatter his vanity, caused Philip a slight feeling of embarrassment. He had never realised that the girl liked him to such an extent; in fact, he remembered that at the time of their parting she had appeared almost indifferent to him. Her heart must have grown fonder with absence.