"I don't want you to do without me," she murmured. "I want you to be always somewhere—somewhere where I can find you if—— Be careful! Here comes some butt-in."
They returned to the dancing floor, where Pat after a survey drew Scott by the hand across the room to a group in a corner. "Here she is," she announced. "That's Aunt Linda." Before she could go further with this informal presentation a circle of importunate claimants had swept about her.
"How do you do, Mr. Cary Scott?" said the lady before whom he found himself standing.
"Mrs. Parker!" he ejaculated.
Pat's description of "old peach" was decidedly overdrawn as to the adjective, though not as to the noun. Aunt Linda was a slim, twinkling, rose-complexioned woman of thirty-five, gowned in a work of art and characterised by a quality of worldliness which, like Scott's own, was a degree above mere smartness. She carried with her a breath of the greater outer world. Moreover she was, if not beautiful, extremely attractive to look at by virtue of a sort of eternal fitness.
"You've forgotten me," she accused lightly. "Or at least, my name. I'm Miss Fentriss."
Not a muscle of Scott's face testified to his surprise at this unexpected denial of a perfectly remembered name. "So stupid of me," he confessed. "Won't you try a round of this dance?"
"No; I'm not dancing. But you may take me to some cooler spot, if you know of any."
No sooner were they beyond earshot of the crowd than she said: "So you have not forgotten Taormina."
"I have forgotten whatever you wish me to forget."