Freda was now turning down a side road to the river, where on the level bank stood the Country Club House, a long, low bungalow finished in shingles of British Columbia cedar. On the wide verandahs which surrounded it many young and middle-aged people were sitting at tables, drinking or standing in groups engaged in conversation.
They left the car at the end of a long line on the side of the road and walked towards the verandah. They could hear the tones of the piano within the pavilion, and as they came nearer could see the moving figures of people dancing. As Freda guided Mauney about the verandah, nodding to several of the guests, he noticed that the constant buzz of conversation was concerned chiefly with golf. Mauney was introduced to some of the members, and as he talked with them found himself slightly ill at ease, because he had never learned to play golf. After a few minutes he began to be conscious of many curious eyes turned in his direction, some of them friendly enough, others merely curious, and a few intensely critical. The conversation was growing less. He felt awkward until he suddenly realized that all these people had been waiting for something, when at last a roadster, which had now become familiar to Mauney, glided quickly up to the verandah, uncomfortably filled with men. As they alighted, carrying musical instruments, it became clear that Courtney had motored to town after an orchestra. An impromptu dance immediately followed.
It had no sooner begun than Courtney, finding Freda at a table with Mauney, came up to speak to her. Gracefully tall, wearing flannels, bare-headed and completely at ease, he appeared to be not older than twenty-five. His black hair was scrupulously barbered and glossy. His flashing, black eyes seemed to know the world, and there was an air of mild superiority, not only in his confident carriage, but in the exclusive smile of black moustachios, red lips, and very white, perfect teeth, with which he greeted Freda.
“Hello, Fly-away,” he said in a deep, musical voice. “I swear you were doing fifty when I passed you.”
“Mr. Courtney,” said Freda, turning towards Mauney, who had risen, “meet Mr. Bard, my friend.”
“How do you do?” said Courtney, with a stiff nod; then devoted himself quickly to Freda once more.
“Awful night for a dance,” he admitted. “But everybody wanted it, so I blew down for Pinkerton’s Harmony Hounds. Lockwood must be agreeing with you, Freda. I never saw you look more captivating.”
“Thanks for those few kind words, Ted,” she replied dryly, although she blushed and wished in a queer flash that Mauney could occasionally say such flattering things.
“Are you dancing?” Courtney inquired.