Mrs. Imogen’s predictions were verified. There was a certain amount of romantic interest attached to the fresh-looking, handsome stranger, reputed wealthy, and who danced so well. “Came, too” (people said), “with that nice, high-bred-looking Mrs. Bruce and the bride.” She danced the first lancers with Mr. Blount, and while exhibiting familiarity with the figures, moved with the graceful indifference which has succeeded the erstwhile precision with which the “steps” were anciently performed. Mr. Blount managed to secure an early waltz, and the naval men coming by shiploads, as it appeared to her, Sheila’s programme was filled in no time.
That there could not have been a better ball, all the authorities combined to declare. The ever-successful secretary and plenipotentiary had once more covered himself with glory; the arrangements were perfect, the supper was “a dream,” and when Sheila found herself taken in by the Captain of the flag-ship, the Admiral and the Governor being in the immediate vicinity, she wondered whether she was likely to fall down in a fit, or if some other kind of death would result from such an overflowing flood of triumphant, ecstatic bliss.
However, she did not die, or indeed was she likely to perish of nervous excitement consequent on pure, unadulterated pleasure; the early bush-training, together with a naturally good constitution, would always preserve her from such an untimely fate.
Imogen was carefully, prudently, introduced to Miss Laura Claremont, who prophesied that they would be great friends, and invited her and her sister to Hollywood. Both of which Imogen accepted conditionally on her husband’s—she laid a slight emphasis upon that very possessive word—“on her husband’s not being hurried away by Mr. Frampton to that horrid Zeehan.” The Upper Sturt party, as we may for convenience describe them, got their full share of partners it may be believed, being all of the age when, if there be an ear for music, and a terpsichorean taste “what time the raving polka spins adown the rocking floor,” with good music, suitable partners, and a smooth surface, nothing much better among the lighter enjoyments of life is to be found. With Miss Claremont Blount had danced before, when their steps appeared to suit extremely well. On this occasion, he saw no reason why he should deny himself the fleeting indulgence of once more gliding and sliding about with her in the accepted fashion.
She graciously acceded to his request for an after supper dance, and in one of the partly deserted side-rooms they came to a mutual understanding, which each felt was more or less needed.
“I owe you a few words,” she said, “if our friendship is to continue—and I should be sorry for it to end abruptly. It appears to me that we were both in an exceptional state of mind when we met at Hollywood for the first time, and if something had not happened—which did happen—one of us would have felt a right to blame the other.”
“You have stated the position most fairly,” he said.
“I hope you don’t think I am so logical,” she replied, “as to be deficient in feeling. Believe me when I tell you”—and here her dark eyes glowed with a transient gleam of hidden fire, which he had never before noticed in them—“I don’t exaggerate when I say that it was a fateful crisis, such as I had never before experienced.”
“It was most truly a supreme moment in my destiny,” he replied, as she faltered and then stopped, overcome by emotion.
“But, let me go on, I entreat, to make open and full confession, for I can never recur to the subject, and I trust you to make a similar promise.”