A masculine form filled the passage. It was Hughie, who, deprived of a partner through Joan's absence,—the result of standing on his dignity in the matter of number eight,—was prowling about in search of a quiet spot where he might indulge in the luxury of a pipe.
Joan, who had forgotten all about number eight, received him with unfeigned pleasure, and hurried him back whence he came. On the way she breathlessly explained the situation to him.
"Hughie, that poor child has come here not knowing a soul, and has stood against the wall for three hours. There isn't a partner to be had for love or money at this hour, so she must just have mine. Take my programme—wait a minute, I'll fill in some of these initials—and go round to all the men whose names are on it, and tell them I'm very sorry but I've got a headache and can't dance any more to-night, but they're to come to me at once at my pillar and be introduced to a substitute I've provided for them."
"Do you think they'll exactly—jump at the idea of a substitute?" suggested Hughie mildly.
"Their business," said Miss Gaymer with a sudden return to her usual manner, "is to do what I tell them! Run, Hughie. Don't say a word about the poor kid not having been able to get partners, will you? Say she came late—anything! You understand?"
Hughie nodded.
"I understand," he said. "She came late, and you have a headache. Those are the two essential facts of the case—eh?"
"Yes. Hurry!" said Joan, giving her guardian a push.
"Joey," said Hughie, "you're a brick!"