"Of course she will be. Philip," she added, with serious intention, "don't be a fool!"
"What do you mean?" he began hotly, but just then they were swept asunder by new arrivals, and as he turned to flee he encountered Miss Baker at the head of the stairs. He felt that a web was being woven around him; now he understood what they were all driving at—Grace, and his mother, and yes, Dorothy herself!—for as he met her eyes shining with welcome he realised that she, with everyone else, awaited but one outcome of their friendship. How blind he had been; he cursed his own denseness.
As a matter of course she attached herself to him. "Where shall we go? It's too early for supper, and I don't feel inclined to sit and listen to music. Let's find some comfortable corner where we can talk in peace."
"I am making for a comfortable corner farther away," he said petulantly; "I'm going home!"
"Oh!" her dismay was patent, "and when I've only just come? I've got something to tell you, something thrilling! Look here, I know this house well. Come along, follow me!"
What else could he do? Morosely he followed her, feeling rather as if he were walking in his sleep, through a door, along a passage, up a few steps, and they were alone in a pretty boudoir that was cool and quiet, fragrant with flowers, away from the crowd and the noise.
"Now we are safe! Give me a cigarette." Dorothy settled herself in a deep chair; the gleam of her hair against a pile of purple cushions, her long white arms and slender outline presented a striking picture, as Philip could not but note as he stood before her on the hearthrug. Had it not been for the disturbing idea that had taken definite shape in his mind this evening he would have felt soothed, contented, very much at home with her. As it was, he began to distrust his own powers of resistance. Either he must get out of London at once, or he would be forced seriously to consider the question of asking Lord Redgate's daughter to be his wife. If, as he could not help assuming, she expected him to propose to her sooner or later, opposition from her father was not to be anticipated. Dorothy would have her own way—given the chance. The fact that he was now actually contemplating the possibility startled him. What a mean brute he must be! He could never love the girl as a man should love the woman he married; if it became necessary he must tell her the truth, and put an end to all thought of anything but friendship....
"You are very glum to-night," she remarked, gazing at him through a cloud of smoke. "What is the matter?"
"Probably the usual curse of the Anglo-Indian—liver!" he replied, with an effort to speak lightly. "I've been eating and drinking too much ever since I got home. It's time I went in for the simple life, somewhere out of all this. It doesn't suit my peculiar constitution!"