The bridge tournament waned to an end, and the dainty and expensive prizes were awarded; the guests flowed in a gentle, happy tide to the supper marquee and partook of such a collation of aspics and salads, and soufflés and truffles, and such a divine brew of cup and amazing brand of cocktails as Wankelo had never before dreamed of in its philosophy; then back they ebbed, more happily and hilariously than they had flowed, to the ballroom, where, on the stroke of midnight, the special string orchestra from Salisbury strung out sweet, tremolo opening bars of the first waltz. And Druro had not come!
Mrs. Hading gracefully surrendered herself to the arms of a great man who had been obliging enough to drop in accidentally by the evening train from Buluwayo, and, floating down the room, opened the ball. Her partner was a very great man indeed, both in South African and English politics, and it was a feather of no small jauntiness in Marice Hading's cap that she had been able to secure him for the vacant seat at her supper-table and afterward beguile him to the ballroom and into asking her to dance. His presence lent a final note of distinction to an extraordinarily successful evening, and she had every reason to be proud and triumphant—except one! But it was that one thing that poisoned all. No triumph could quench her rage and humiliation at Druro's defection.
"He shall pay! He shall pay!" were the words that beat time in her brain, all the while she was floating and gliding among her guests, full of graceful, weary words and charming, tired smiles, the only colour in her face showing on her bitter lips.
"He shall pay me my price for this," she promised herself softly, "and it shall not be a light one."
(Hugh Hading had paid his price for her girlhood; Lundi Druro should pay for the rest of her life!)
Only one thing could put her right with her own pride and before the little world which had witnessed the slight, and that she would exact—the announcement that he was hers, body and soul, to do with as she pleased. That the honour would be an empty one, this evening's déroute would seem to have demonstrated; he had proved once more that he was no man's man, and no woman's man, either; he belonged to his sins, and his weaknesses, and his failings. But, for the moment, it would be enough for Marice Hading that he should propose to her and be accepted. Her time would come later—afterward. There were many modes of recompense of which she was past mistress, many subtle means of repayment for injuries received. Such a mind as hers was not lacking in refined methods of inflicting punishment. It would be proved to him, in bitter retribution, that Marice Hading could not be trifled with and neglected—forgotten for a game of cards!
In the meantime, she eased her anger a little by snubbing Tryon, when he came to claim a waltz she had given him early in the week. Looking at him with cool and lovely disdain as she leaned on the arm of the great politician who still lingered with her, she disclaimed all recollection of any such engagement.
"You should be careful not to make such mistakes, Mr. Tryon," she said haughtily.
"Soit! The mistake is mine as well as the loss," he murmured gracefully, knowing very well what was his real crime. "But prophets must be prepared for losses. In olden days they have even been known to lose their heads for prophesying too truly." And on that he made a bow, and returned to Gay, whom he had left in their sitting-out place, which was his car. She had danced but little all the evening and seemed lost in dark thoughts.
"Tired?" he asked, leaning on the door beside her.