After a half-hour of dancing and holding court—for Marguerite’s triumph was truly that of a queen, it was so complete—Miss Andrews turned to Mr. Willard and took his arm.
“Let us go into the conservatory,” she said, in a whisper. “I have heard so much about Mrs. Howlett’s orchids, I should like to see them.”
Willard, seeing that she was tired and slightly bored by the incessant chatter of those about her, escorted her out through the broad door into the conservatory. As she passed from the ballroom the dark eyes of Count Bonetti flashed upon her, but she heeded them not, moving on into the floral bower in apparently serene unconsciousness of that person’s presence. Here Willard got her a chair.
“Will you have an ice?” he asked, as she seated herself beneath one of the lofty palms.
“Yes,” she answered, simply. “I can wait here alone if you will get it.”
Willard passed out, and soon returned with the ice; but as he came through the doorway Bonetti stopped him and whispered something in his ear.
“Certainly, Count, right away,” Willard answered. “Come along.”
Bonetti needed no second bidding, but followed Willard closely, and soon stood expectant before Marguerite.
“Miss Andrews,” said Willard, “may I have the pleasure of presenting Count Bonetti?”