“I am delighted to see you again,” she began, but Mrs. Laing broke in breathlessly.
“They’ve just finished that waltz, Lord Fairholme. Shall we make up a set for the Lancers?”
“Well—er—no,” he said lamely. “You see, I’m not dancing just now.”
Rosamund flushed with annoyance. Her rudeness to Evelyn had caused her to forget Fairholme’s bereavement.
“Pray forgive me,” she cried. “How thoughtless I was! Who was the man you were conversing with so deeply in the garden, Miss Dane?”
“A friend, an officer on board one of the ships in the harbor. Are you making a long stay in Las Palmas, Lord Fairholme?”
The good–natured little peer was conscious that the two women were at daggers drawn, and the younger one could evidently match her senior in contemptuous indifference.
“Dunno yet,” he grinned. “It depends on how Mrs. Laing and you treat me. Judgin’ by the giddy throng in the ballroom, I’m afraid I shall figure again in the ‘also ran’ class.”
“Miss Dane is free. I can vouch for that,” laughed Rosamund.
But Evelyn’s answering smile was more genuine.