“Convent—! Oh, yes, of course.”
“You know we’re really quite a breezy lot, if you only know us. Some of this year’s debs are really very dreadful.”
“How shocking, and Miss Wharton is not dreadful?”
“Oh, dear, no. But she is awfully good fun. Come, you must meet her. Let me take you over.”
But good fortune in the person of Stephen Ventnor intervened.
It was the unexpected which was to happen. Crabb was returning from the table with a favor. His eye ran along the line of chairs in a brief fruitless search. Mr. Barclay, who was leading the cotillion, caught his eye at this precise psychological moment.
“Stranded, Crabb? Let me present you to——”
He mentioned no name but was off in a moment winding in and out among those on the floor. Crabb followed. When he had succeeded in eluding the imminent dancers and had reached the other side of the room, there was Barclay bending over.
“Awfully nice chap—stranger,” he was saying, and then aloud, “Miss Wharton, may I present—Mr. Crabb?”