But while the monosyllables came haltingly from Marjorie’s tongue, a stir had arisen in the larger drawing-room. It was plain that a group of people, young men and maidens taking counsel together in a corner, were bent on some kind of action. Their project matured quickly. Rosie Verschoyle shot a beseeching glance at old Andros as she went through a meaning pantomime of the waltz step. Little Oscar Jones, with the air of a man upon whom rests an onerous embassy, made his way across both rooms to Marjorie.
‘Ten thousand pardons, Miss Bartrand! Would not intrude for the world on a tête-à-tête. Fact is, you see, some of them want to get up a dance on the lawn.’
‘A dance! Absurdity!’ cried Marjorie, bestowing on him an ultra-Bartrand look. Then, recollecting their position as hostess and guest, ‘I mean, would not tennis amuse you just as well?’ she observed, with show of interest. ‘Or ask Gertrude de Carteret to sing, or——’
‘But, dear Miss Bartrand, we all of us want to dance,’ persisted the handsome little lieutenant, with a smile that he had grounds for believing irresistible. ‘Miss Tighe volunteers to play for us beside an open window. Powerful backstairs interest is at this moment bearing down on the Seigneur. We only want an encouraging word from you.’
‘I never say encouraging words. It is too foolish,’ cried Marjorie, detecting, in her misery, that Geoffrey showed signs of flight. ‘To begin with, we have so few gentlemen.’
‘Few; why, there are five at least of Ours. There is Mr. Geoffrey Arbuthnot.... Ah! going already? Then we must reckon without Mr. Geoffrey Arbuthnot. And it seems some of the clergy dance, a mild square dance, and——’
‘Yes, yes, Marjorie!’ exclaimed a bevy of young girls, coming up and surrounding her like the chorus in an opera. ‘It is useless for you to be wise. Rosie has won the Seigneur to say Yes. Miss Tighe is ready. The piano is on its journey to the window.’
‘Will you be my partner for the first waltz, Miss Bartrand?’ pleaded Oscar Jones.
Now, at any prior moment of her life, Marjorie Bartrand, deficient neither in temper nor in courage, would, thus attacked, have held her ground stoutly. But the girl saw, or fancied she saw, that Geoffrey was eager to get away. Her spirit was charged to overflowing. The eyes of half the people in the room were fixed upon her expectantly. Easier, she thought, before Geoffrey, before them all, to give a coldly assenting bow than trust her voice to speak; so she gave it.
Oscar Jones looked radiant. ‘Thank you, awfully, Miss Bartrand. This is a victory worth scoring. I will just go and start the corps de ballet, ask the orchestra to strike up some gay old waltz tune, and return to you.’