Clodagh turned her eyes hastily, almost nervously, from Serracauld's attentive face to the cold features of the older man.
"I—I should feel very flattered," she said lightly.
Her eyes were on Deerehurst's, her hand was in his, but her mind was poignantly conscious of Gore's figure standing close behind her—of Gore's voice exchanging grettings with Lady Diana Tuffnell.
A moment later, she knew that he had turned and had seen the tableau made by the old peer, Serracauld, and herself.
"How d'you do, Mrs. Milbanke? It is a long time since we have met."
It was not until he had directly addressed her, not until she had turned and met his glance, that Clodagh realised how deeply, how peculiarly he had influenced her. She drew her fingers sharply from Deerehurst's.
"It is a long time," she said very softly.
Gore took her hand.
At the same moment Deerehurst laughed—his laugh of unfathomable cynical wisdom.
"Mrs. Milbanke was the chrysalis in those old days, Gore!" he said lightly. "Now you see the butterfly!"