‘Linda Thorne is considered the best waltzer in Guernsey,’ said Cassandra. ‘Your tongue is over-sharp. You speak before you think, Marjorie Bartrand.’
‘I feel before I do either,’ whispered the girl, her hand stealing back, with half-shy kindness, to Dinah’s arm.
‘If Mrs. Arbuthnot had been with us,’ said Cassandra, ‘she would have witnessed a sight worth laughing at. Marjorie scoffs at middle-aged partners. What would you think, Mrs. Arbuthnot, of a white-haired woman flying across hedges and ditches—breathless with excitement, over the capture of a butterfly? Scarce a dozen specimens of Pontia Daplidice have been seen in Northern Europe during the last twenty years,’ went on old Cassandra, flushed still with victory. ‘And of these six only were netted, like mine, on the wing. Why, it would be worth staying a week here—a week, a month, on the outside chance of sighting a second Pontia Daplidice!’
CHAPTER XXIX MISSING
All this time the Princess, lying well outside the Luc rocks, was getting up her steam. Before the waltz had ended a red light, hung from the vessel’s bows, gave the signal for those on shore to hurry their departure. There was a flutter of airy dresses as the English party emerged from the ball-room into darkness, a ripple of talk as they filed, Indian fashion, hand steadying hand, down the narrow path that led from the casino to the little fishing slip or jetty.
And then unexpectedly came the first misadventure that had arisen to mar this day of calm and sunshine. When the party had embarked in two of the unwieldy flat-bottomed boats of the country, it occurred to Lord Rex, as commander-in-chief, that their number should be counted. And soon the cry arose that one was wanting! Seventeen human souls left Guernsey that morning—on this point all were confident. Sixteen human souls only were forthcoming now. And no efforts of memory, individual or collective, could hit upon the defaulter’s name.
Mrs. Verschoyle exclaimed in a hollow voice that it was a most uncomfortable omen. She would be sorry to depress the younger people’s spirits, but, for her part, she would sooner set sail in the teeth of a hurricane than have had this thing occur. ‘Let the counting be more systematic,’ said the poor lady, jumping to her feet, and for once in her life launching into independent action. ‘Let me repeat each name slowly, beginning with the youngest of the gentlemen, and let each person answer as he is called. Mr. Smith? Brown? Jones? Lord Rex? The two Mr. Arbuthnots? Doctor Thorne?’