"Where's Amy, Reg?" said Mrs. Whyte as he came near, in an anxious voice, somewhat louder than strict etiquette demanded.
Reg sat down beside her and told her Amy was sitting out with Mr. Wyckliffe.
"What, three dances, Reg. I think I had better go to her."
"There is no need for that, for here she comes," answered Reg, quickly, as he saw Amy suddenly appear in the ball-room. A fierce pang of jealousy seized him when he noticed how she hung on her partner's arm. "Hadn't we better go home, mother?" he said, "I am tired of this."
"Really, Mrs. Whyte," said Wyck, coming up to her with a bland expression of unconsciousness, "I must apologize for keeping Miss Johnson away from you so long; but it was so cool and pleasant in the gallery."
Mrs. Whyte merely bowed and said:
"Amy, come and let us fetch our cloaks, we are going home."
"All right, mother," she answered, quietly, her eyes fixed on Wyck's departing figure.
They passed him again in the entrance hall, and as Amy shook hands with him and bade him good-night, Reg was maddened to notice Wyck stoop and whisper something to her, and to see her smile and nod in return.
The demeanour of the party on their return was so different, that even the old cabby could not help noticing it. Incessant chattering and gay bursts of laughter marked their journey to the ball-room, that "it did one's heart good," as the cabby put it. But on the return journey everyone was silent, gloomy and depressed. Whyte was waiting at the gate for them and, as he opened the door, cried out in his cheery voice, "Back again, my children," but, to his surprise, there was no response and, seeing Mrs. Whyte signal him to be quiet, he gave a low whistle and murmured under his breath, with a chuckle, "a lover's quarrel, by Jove."