She wondered idly if another Gita Carteret, long forgotten, had taken possession of her. Then she frowned and jerked her shoulders. Those old Gitas at her age had either been married or were in love with a “swain”—someone as good-looking as Geoffrey Pelham, no doubt; and, if permitted a moment of retirement, would have been dreaming of his perfections, indulging in romantic musings. She wondered if any of the girls would fall in love with him tonight. Polly had evidently marked him for her own, but Polly was as cold-blooded as Eustace; she would flirt with him desperately tonight and forget his existence on the morrow.
Her mind swung uneasily to Eustace. He looked detestable in that puffed wig and with punch relaxing the muscles of his face. Like quite another person. It was all very well to act up to his character as a beefy and dissipated old governor but she’d warn him at the end of this dance that if he didn’t let the punch-bowl alone she’d cut out one part of the program. And she’d never marry him in that wig.
She moved restlessly in her chair and beat with her heels on the stool. Once more she felt an overwhelming reluctance to marry. Of course she had not changed her mind, and of course the Eustace of five months could not be obliterated by the caricature of a night. He was a dear and had inspired in her the deepest affection she had felt since the death of her mother; had, in a measure, taken her place. And he could give her the large free life she craved. But two or three months hence would be time enough. . . . Moreover . . . she dimly felt she was outraging the girls who had left this old manor with their husbands, before her. . . . Who had worn this dress of gold tissue? she wondered. A young married woman, probably, with a baby or two!
She laughed harshly, then almost cried out as she heard Geoffrey Pelham’s voice behind her.
“I suppose you are laughing at your guests,” he said, as he took a chair opposite. “The girls look charming, but the men—well, some of them give pain to a student of anatomy. I wonder if I may smoke?”
“Please do.” Gita had hastily lowered her feet and tucked them under her long skirts. “You never could guess what I was laughing at and I’ll never tell you. How do you like dancing?”
“Good exercise, I should think; but dancing with Miss Pleyden is like dancing with a ball of thistle-down. I felt as if I should be chasing instead of trying to dance with her.”
“If a girl isn’t light she’s not much of a dancer.” The answer was mechanical. She was watching his long sensitive fingers roll a cigarette. “You must be a wonderful surgeon,” she said. “One’s feet are much like one’s hands, I suppose, and perhaps that is the reason you learned to dance so quickly.”
He reddened and grinned. “That’s an idea! Are all your ideas as original as that?”
Gita never blushed, but she lowered her eyelashes more under the frank admiration of his gaze than at the compliment. “Eustace says I have flashes of intelligence. I suppose he’s at that punch-bowl again.” And she frowned.