If she could find Colonel Mellersh, or Mr Barclay—but no; there was not a soul she knew, and from different parts of the room men were approaching her, evidently to ask her to dance.
She escaped into another saloon, and there was Denville.
She took a few steps towards him, but he hurried away as if to attend to a call from their hostess, who was smiling at the end of the room. The next moment Cora saw her take the arm of the Master of the Ceremonies and go through a farther door.
Impossible to speak to him now. It was as if Mrs Pontardent had divined the reason of her coming, and was fighting against her with all her might.
Another gentleman approached, but she shrank away nervously, expecting each moment to see again her companion of the dark walk.
All at once, to her great joy, she caught sight of Mrs Barclay, looking in colour like a full-blown cabbage-rose, and exhaling scent.
She hurried up to the plump pink dame, to be saluted with:
“Ah, my dear, how handsome you do look to-night!”
“Where’s Claire Denville?” cried Cora huskily.
“Claire, my dear? Oh, she was with me ever so long, but she has just gone down the grounds.”