He laid out a plate of mayonnaise, another of trifle, a bottle about half-full of champagne, and a tumbler.
"Hughie," said Joan, "you're the only real friend I have in the world! I was nearly crying for something to eat. That, and seeing other people dance and not me. Hughie, it was simply awful! I had no idea: if I had sat there much longer I should have burst into tears. I'd forgotten, too, that by giving away all my partners I was giving away my supper. If I'd remembered I would have kept just one—a little one. But never mind, now: the plague is stayed. I owe you one for this. How did you manage to carry all those things?"
"Large hands," said Hughie. "Half a minute!"
He produced from his tail-pocket two forks, a napkin, and a bottle of soda-water.
"I remembered you liked your drink diluted," he said, pouring out both bottles at once. "I noticed it at dinner, the other night."
"Hughie, you're a dear!" said Joan impulsively.
"Say when!" remarked Hughie unsteadily.
It was five o'clock in the morning. The band had played "Whisper and I shall hear," followed by "John Peel," followed by "God save the King," followed by "John Peel," once more, followed by "God save the King" again, and the musicians were now putting away their instruments with an air of finality which intimated that in their humble opinion the Midfield Hunt Ball had had its money's worth.
The Manors party, all twelve of them, were being scientifically packed into an omnibus constructed to seat ten uncomfortably, and Joan was waiting her turn in the portico. At this moment Sylvia Tarrant, followed by a slightly sheepish brother, came down the steps. Her cheeks were excessively pink and her eyes blazed.