His arm tightened, guiding her. She lifted a hungry face. He bent again when a door opened shedding a broad ray of light upon them. Against the glaring background moved Constance, a vision of witchery in her filmy gown, followed by Emslie Selfridge.
"Pat!" she exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"
Before the confused girl could reply, her escort came briskly to her rescue. "I caught it peeking behind a bush," he explained, "and it wasn't a bur-gu-lar after all. So I'm taking it in to see what it is and whether it can dance."
"It's my kid sister," said Constance. "Mother will be pleased!"
"Are you going to tell her?" demanded Pat.
"I certainly am."
"Then I may as well have my dance before you find her," declared the culprit calmly.
"The fourteenth, a foxy little trot; with Mr. Warren Graves," put in her escort cheerily. He drew her arm through his own where it nestled gratefully.
Armoured though he was in the careless self-confidence of youth, young Mr. Graves winced as his partner stood revealed under the full glare of the lights. She looked so awfully and awkwardly young! Her hair was so awry, her gown so ill-fitted, her skin so splotchy. But there was magic in the long, slanted, shy, trustful eyes looking into his own, and the tingling excitation of her kiss was still in his blood. Moreover he had had a steady succession of drinks.