To Jardine's consternation, as they took their seats, Lloyd gravely and circumspectly bowed to both. After they had ceremoniously returned the salutation, Jardine observed that each cast a swift, searching glance at Lloyd. They, too, saw that which had not been in his face before. Mrs. Laniston now joined the party, deceptively arrayed in what she called her "old black Chantilly," which seemed a very fine lace dress as long as its wear and tear were obliterated by the black satin beneath, but a sorry sight it might have been over white silk, which it had been designed to cover in its palmy days. It was quite good enough for New Helvetia, out of season, and, with the twinkle of a diamond lace-pin, and the flutter of a fan of inlaid pearl, not even her nearest neighbours knew how they had been cozened of a toilette of distinction. For it was rather a point at New Helvetia to maintain all the flattering delusions of a sojourn of pleasure and free will, rather than an enforced detention, and all the formalities of dressing, and dancing, and playing tenpins, and cards, and tennis were continued as long as the covey of summer birds could muster the numbers to sustain the diversion. Jardine suddenly bethought himself of this, and not to be forestalled anew he leaned backward and touched Frank Laniston, as he sat at the next table. Frank turned instantly, and leaned slightly to one side to hear the communication, made in a very low tone under Mrs. Laniston's voluble description of her experiences addressed to the occupants of the neighbouring table on the left—charming ride—somewhat fatigued—quaint little town—enjoyed the fair—how the storm must have frightened you, lightning terrific at such an altitude—must have been terrible—glad to escape it——
"Frank," said Jardine seriously, "for God's sake let's have no dancing this evening, no german——"
Frank's patience had worn well, but it had now waxed thin. He was no longer tucked up under Jardine's arm, so to speak, and off on their travels. New Helvetia, familiar to him since infancy, was like home, and he felt independent. He was not "looking for a row" with anybody, but, if one were forced upon him, there was no longer an obligatory association—there was elbow-room here—Jardine and he could move apart, each going his own way without embarrassment, or an open esclandre.
"You needn't adjure me," he said with spirit. "I am too tired to put one foot before the other. I don't want to dance."
"But don't let the others——" Jardine began.
Frank Laniston had his own theories of the becoming. He had thought it well enough that Jardine, in escorting the young ladies under circumstances so unusual, should have special solicitude touching the decorous and the appropriate. But he felt, if he might venture to criticise anyone so assertively au fait, that Jardine was not infallible in his management, as the swing episode intimated, that he was prone to magnify any awkward little contretemps, and by much pother make something out of nothing. A man with feminine relatives is susceptible to a certain sensitiveness in their behalf, impossible for a man not so connected to appreciate. In Mr. Jardine's persuasions concerning these matters of propriety he overlooked one point—that he, himself, committed a solecism in mentioning them to Frank in this connection. The mere discussion was an offence in young Laniston's estimation. He would not longer suffer it.
"You are afraid that Lloyd, my coach, might get into the german—say as a rover?" he asked, with the infinitely exasperating, callow sarcasm, his big white strong teeth gleaming in his rosy square-jawed face. "Why, I don't know whether he can dance the german at all. I should say that a tight-rope fandango was more in his line."
Jardine turned without another word, and at all the white-draped tables the amicable plying of knife and fork continued, unaware of this provocation to a breach of the peace.
After tea Jardine lighted his cigar at the counter in the office and strolled out on the side piazza, puffing at it in a very ill frame of mind. He needed its solace, and the sedative influence to his nerves, after the vexatious incidents of the evening, and the perplexity that beset him as to how he should proceed—or indeed, with no seconding from this young cub, whose position as a near relative of the ladies authorised interference, what could he do? Of course Jardine realised that his solicitude in these troublous complications was entirely on Lucia's account, but he said to himself that any ladies of his acquaintance placed in a position so menacing to their dignity, with such inadequate protection as the shallow-pated Frank Laniston could afford, had a claim on his good offices to spare them a discreditable episode.
He paced to and fro in the chill air, pulling hard at his cigar and glancing now at its light wreaths of smoke, and now at the illuminated disk of the moon, riding high above the infinite solitudes of the mountains. He heard the wind stir in the leaves far below on the slope; he marked how the great ranges against the horizon fended off the world; he listened to the impetuous dash of the mountain torrent in the ravine leaping down the rocky abysses on its way to the valley. But as yet there was no flicker of light from the windows of the ballroom, a long, low building in the extremity of the west wing, remote from the more inhabited portion of the hotel that the sound of revelry should not reach the old, the invalids, the slumberers in the bedrooms. There was no vibration of the tuning of the fiddles or banjos, for the regular band had gone, and the music of an humble sort was furnished by several of the negro waiters, musically endowed and hired for the occasion. It seemed really as if the guests might not intend to dance to-night, their limited number being so reduced by the defection of the exhausted excursionists. From the front piazza, which extended along the whole façade of the building, came the sound of joyous young voices, and it occurred to Jardine that perhaps the youthful element might content themselves with promenading to and fro in the moonlight till the increasing chill of the air should drive them within to the fire blazing so ruddily on the broad hearth of the office.