"Pater," she said, turning to her father, "this is Mr. Flint, who was so kind to me in India, you remember."
Lord Redgate shook hands without speaking. Philip encountered a searching gaze from beneath the shaggy red eyebrows. He felt he was being "sized up."
"You will take Miss Baker down to dinner," Grace told her brother, "and you must put up with me, Lord Redgate, though"—with an engaging smile—"I can't talk about labour troubles, and 'back to the land,' or anything of that kind, you know."
He grunted. Certainly Lord Redgate's strong point was not "manners."
"Now we are all here," went on Lady Lane-Johnson, not at all disconcerted—she had expected nothing else from her distinguished guest, peer of the realm with unlimited riches though he was—"except John, of course." Consulting her list, she went in and out among the company allotting partners, while Miss Baker chattered with a sort of nervous excitement to Philip.
"And how is India? It seems more like twenty years to me instead of only two since I was out there. I shall never rest till I can get back. How long are you home for?"
"Six months, unless I take an extension."
"Good! You will come and see us? I've such heaps to talk about; and you must stay with us in the country. Your sister has told me how splendidly you have got on—Simla and Calcutta, and no end of importance. The next thing will be 'The Star,' of course."
Just then Sir John hurried in, and the little disturbance that ensued as he went round shaking hands, to be successfully anchored by his wife to Lady Bawe, parted them for the moment. But when, with Dorothy on his arm, Philip found himself descending the staircase, carefully avoiding the train of the lady in front of them, it was of Stella Crayfield that he was thinking. Miss Baker had innocently started the aching, regretful memory. The one star he really desired was not for him, would never be his. Where was Stella at this moment? What had become of her? The letter he had written to her after her husband's death was never answered, and, true to his promise, he had "understood," had accepted and respected her silence with bitter resignation, extracting what solace he could from his work and his rapid advancement, though his success brought him little solid satisfaction.
Now they were all seated at the dinner table, with slices of musky melon before them; and fantastically the notion struck him that Miss Baker was rather like a slice of melon herself—all curves and rich golden hues, delectable but just as unsatisfying.