Summertown's sword flashed to the salute and rattled clumsily back into its scabbard. He returned to the orchestra, and Loring, after a survey of the room to find his partner, followed quickly after him. Oakleigh laid his hand persuasively on Barbara's wrist and lowered his voice.
"Your ball's been such an astounding success that I hope you're not going to spoil it for the sake of a quarrel with Jim."
Barbara pressed his hand gently.
"Dear George! I'm so fond of you! You always speak with the sweet reasonableness of a man with numberless troublesome little brothers and sisters. Don't worry about me! It may be a wrong-headed sort of pride, but, when I've asked a man for a thing, I'd sooner starve than take it from anybody else."
Over the drone of voices came the tap of the leader's baton. George shuffled from one foot to the other, shrugged his shoulders and hurried away with a lop-sided smile. The middle of the room quickly cleared until Barbara was left by herself, with the procession pressed in twos by the walls. As the first chord was struck, Summertown called out:
"Once round and then down, Babs?"
"Oh, twice, I think," she called back. "I want to see you all."
As the couples moved forward, she retreated to an armchair on a dais by the door, smiling down on them and returning their bows. There was a stiff nod from her father, walking with Lady Maitland, and a sweet, perplexed smile from her mother, who was with Lord Poynter. Oakleigh, with the Duchess of Ross on his arm, again shrugged his shoulders, but she had little attention to spare for him; immediately behind, Violet Hunter-Oakleigh was walking with Val Arden.
Barbara looked quickly round the room, and, as the procession completed its first circuit, Loring came up and stood beside her.
"I told Violet it was your birthday," he said abruptly.