That final clash of the bells brought the Captain and his partner to anchor at the end of the gallery, which opened through an archway into a spacious palm-house with a lofty dome. In the middle of this archway, looking at the dancers, stood a figure at sight of which Violet Tempest's heart gave a great leap, and then stood still.
It was Roderick Vawdrey. He was standing alone, listlessly contemplating the ball-room, with much less life and expression in his face than there was in the pictured faces on the walls.
"That was a very nice waltz thanks," said Vixen, giving the captain a little curtsey.
"Shall I take you back to Mrs. Tempest?"
Roderick had seen her by this time, and was coming towards her with a singularly grave and distant countenance, she thought; not at all like the Rorie of old times. But of course that was over and done with. She must never call him Rorie any more, not even in her own thoughts. A sharp sudden memory thrilled her, as they stood face to face in that brilliant gallery—the memory of their last meeting in the darkened room on the day of her father's funeral.
"How do you do?" said Roderick, with a gush of originality. "Your mamma is here, I suppose."
"Haven't you seen her?"
"No; we've only just come."
"We," no doubt, meant the Dovedale party, of which Mr. Vawdrey was henceforth a part.
"I did not know you were to be here," said Vixen, "or then that you were in England."