Sybil Chauntsey had picked up roses, pinned them in her hair and in her dress, wrote on her card "Summer." She was left alone as they danced, until some man, seeing her, whirled her noisily round and laughed and dropped her. The girl felt that she was not one of this romping crowd; her pleasure began to taste bitterly to her.
Esmé, forgetting her troubles, had tied a sash round her dress, twisted some stuff into a head-dress, and called herself a Spaniard. The yellow gown and scarlet sash suited her.
She only did one figure in the cotillon; she liked looking on. Then they formed up for the prize before the judges.
Lady Deverelle, in her green underskirt, took first easily. They gave the Prince the next.
The musicians thrummed, but the dancers were weary of fooling; shadow-like, they melted away into nooks and summer-houses, until from every corner echoed the hushed treble of women's voices, the hushed depth of men's.
"See, I have marked down my corner." Captain Gore Helmsley tore off a shield of paper off his arm and took Esmé's arm. She felt his fingers press on her warm, soft flesh. "See here." He had the key of a small outdoor room, a glorified summer-house hung about with fragrant roses, furnished with lounge chairs and soft cushions. Darkness wrapped it, but with a click Esmé turned on a shaded light, giving a faint glimmer through the gloom.
Gore Helmsley pulled the chairs to one side, so that to curious passers-by they were in shade. The dim glow fell on Esmé, on her shining hair, her brilliantly pretty face.
"So, it was good of you to come down," Jimmie said. "I was afraid you wouldn't. And once here—" he said.
"And here," Esmé's voice, interrupting, was not lowered. "Here we can be amused for two days—no more."
"No more," he whispered.