"Sit down, then," she said. "We're friends now, aren't we?" And she tapped his tanned cheek, that still had a bit of the peach-look, with her feathery black fan.
"On the contrary, Marm," he said, bowing but not taking a seat.
"Lor', but you are an amusin' boy, m'dear!" she said, and she let go his sleeve as she turned to survey the field.
In that instant he slipped away from her disagreeable presence.
He slipped behind a stout Judge from Melbourne, then past a plumed woman, apparently of fashion, and was gone.
What he had to do was to reconnoitre his own position. He wanted Monica first. That was his fixed determination. But he was not going to let go of Mary either. Not in spite of battalions of Aunt Matildas, or correct social individuals. It was a battle.
But he had to gauge Mary's disposition. He saw how much she was a social thing: how much, even, she was Lord Haworth's granddaughter. And how little she was that other thing.
But it was a battle, a long, slow subtle battle. And he loved a fight, even a long, invisible one.
In the ballroom the A. D. C. pounced on him.
When he was free again, he looked round for Mary. It was the sixteenth dance, and she was being well nursed. When the dance was over, he went calmly and sat between her and Aunt Matilda on a red gilt sofa. Things were a little stiff. Even Mary was stiff.