“I’ve as clean a bill of health as our friend Gaisford is ever likely to give me,” Eric laughed. For a moment he had felt his muscles tightening in embarrassment and could only think of a dinner at Lady Crawleigh’s house when Amy had given him the same glowing smile of encouragement; she had bathed in his happiness at being in love with her cousin and had exhorted him to go on and prosper in disregard of any obstacles that Barbara’s father might impose. Eric wondered whether she remembered that night as vividly as he did. Gaisford’s name touched another note in his brain, and he remembered the doctor’s telling him that George Oakleigh had once been in love with her; it was an old, familiar tale, and, until a few months before, the gossips had predicted that neither of them would ever marry. In the act of wondering whether she felt any resentment towards George or Barbara, Eric realized that she was too big of heart to grudge happiness to any one. “I’m most awfully glad to see you again!,” he added, unconsciously pressing her hand.
As they turned to watch the dancing, Eric recalled that he had never before met Amy in the O’Ranes’ house. After her brother’s jilting at Sonia’s hands, the two families had found it more comfortable not to meet; they were apparently now reconciled, and any one could choose between thinking that they had drifted together in the irresistible crosscurrents of London and imagining that the more generous had made overtures of friendship. Behind the warmth of her greeting Eric had fancied the diffidence of a suppliant, as though Amy were offering him amends on behalf of all her kin; he realized that he could, if he liked, live in retirement, but that, if he came back to the old life, he must try to shew as much graciousness and as little rancour as Amy displayed towards those who fell below her own exalted standard of chivalry.
“You don’t see a chair anywhere..?,” he heard her murmuring.
“Why shouldn’t we stake out a claim at the supper-table?,” he asked. “I was wondering if you were dining with the Carstairs next week... Oh, well, don’t you think you might get Lady John to invite you? It’s so very long since I’ve seen you; and it’s impossible to talk here... London hasn’t changed much in the last two years.”
“Or the last five. I wonder if we’re going straight back to 1914... I’ve not been to a party of this kind since the war. It’s not very amusing....”
The scenes from the ballet were followed by a pianoforte solo; Harry Manders poured forth a stream of stories; Deganway gave imitations; and Pentyre accompanied himself on a banjo, until a restless group headed by Gaymer suggested clearing away the furniture for a dance. Eric, too, was finding but little amusement in Mrs. O’Rane’s strenuous programme and would have preferred to talk in peace to Amy Loring or go home to bed. This, he decided, would be the last party of its kind which he could spare time to attend; for a moment he had wandered aimlessly in the wilderness of London, waiting to light upon anything that would occupy his thoughts. Nothing had come to him, and he recognized that he must find his refuge in work.
“I’m too old for this sort of thing,” he murmured to Amy.
“I can’t remember ever being young enough,” she answered with a smile.
The heat and noise were by now almost unbearable; high spirits were rising by imperceptible shrill stages to rowdiness; and, as Gaymer’s deputation pressed insistently for its dance, the older members of the party began to look at their watches.
“Anything you like, if you’ll only wait until every one’s had something to eat—,” cried Mrs. O’Rane, leaving the supper-table to pacify Gaymer.