“Never met her before to-night. She’s got a topping figure. She must be pretty well connected. Lord Alfred Powys is one of their directors here.”
“But you don’t mean to say—” Edwin began.
“The night is yet young,” said Griffin, gulping another whisky. “God, there’s number twelve! I must hook it.”
Edwin wandered back to the ballroom. He couldn’t keep away from it, but, at the same time, he was anxious not to appear disengaged, for fear that Mrs. Willis should induce some other heavy partner to abandon her arm-chair for his amusement. He hung about the pillars of the folding doors that led into the supper room, just out of range of Mrs. Willis’s maternal gaze. From this point he could watch the beautiful Miss Powys, and wonder, with a sort of bitter excitement, exactly what Griffin had meant by his suggestions. Watching her, he could not believe that she could be anything but graceful and beautiful in everything she did. The band started to play the music for waltz: number sixteen. He remembered it was the second dance that Griffin had booked with her. For some reason that he couldn’t imagine, he felt that he wanted to be near when Griffin came for her: perhaps he could tell her attitude towards him by something that she might say. He went over to the place where she was sitting next to Mrs. Willis. He tried not to look at her.
In a moment he heard Griffin’s voice. “Ours, I think.” The tone was a little blurred by Griffin’s potations.
“I think you’ve made a mistake,” she said.
Edwin turned round, and at the same moment she looked towards him. “Surely I am dancing this with you, Mr. Ingleby.”
“But look here, I’m sure these are your initials on my programme, Miss Powys. Let me look at yours.”
He tried to take the programme from her fingers, but she moved it away.
“Really, we mustn’t contradict each other, Mr. Griffin. The dance is Mr. Ingleby’s. Will you take me, please?” she said to Edwin.