But “my wife,” if present, inconsiderately was concealing her identity in the faces and figures of half a hundred or more women, not one of whom I knew. Margery apparently had not yet come upon the floor, or—the horrid thought obtruded itself—she had discovered who I was, or, rather, who I was not. And what more likely? I had been an ass not to think of this before. And as to the consequences? Each possibility was a shade more humiliating than the one before.
Then, just as I was about to turn away to hide myself, to forget myself, anywhere, anyhow, I saw Margery; and, to save my soul, I could not have left without a lingering look by which to remember all the sweet lines of her face and figure. Bereft of that long coat and close veil, for the first time I saw what I had only guessed at before. She had stepped from the shelter of a palm to lay a detaining hand upon the arm of an older woman; and as she stood there, with bright eyes regarding the dancers, her head tilted back, the thought of flight fled from me.
The woman she stood beside was not “Edith,” but Mrs. “Ted” Mason—the wife of one of the best fellows I ever knew, and a stanch friend of mine. Instantly my resolve was made. Mrs. “Ted’s” loyalty should be put to the supreme test. She should be my confessor, and, unless I was mistaken, the counsel for my defense. I started on my way around the hem of promenaders.
Twice I was delayed by the incursions of dancers, and when I reached the side of my prospective ally she was alone. Out on the floor a slender figure in lavender was smiling in the face of her partner—a man I knew I was to dislike exceedingly when I should meet him.
Mrs. “Ted’s” eyes grew big when I stood before her. And when she spoke it was with the air of a tragedy queen. “Do I see aright? Is it you? Or is it your wraith? Is this Page Winslow? And is this scene of revelry—a dancing floor? Oh, Page, Page! In my old age to give me this shock is cruel—unlike you—utterly cruel, I say!”
My face burned for the shame I could not conceal, but I was beyond the point where any attack was to divert me. I explained—lies came so readily now. I was present to-night by promise to Tony Rennert, I said. Only by engaging to show myself at the dance had I been able to persuade him to give me his company for a day’s shooting. And Tony was detained in the city, and I was here alone, unprotected, liable at any moment to be seized with stage fright and to swoon. Such a thing would be disgraceful and embarrassing as well to all my friends—in other words, to herself. No, I corrected myself, that was not quite true. There was one other person present who might remember me—a Miss Gans——
“Margery Gans!” Mrs. Ted’s amazement left her speechless for a moment. Then, while the first words of my confession stuck in my throat, she burst out: “And you of all men! Why, she is just out of a convent school! Tonight is her first! How on earth——?”
It was harder than ever now to say what I was trying to say, and she gave me small opportunity. “Why? Why?” she resumed, and suddenly her voice took on a gravity which her mischievous eyes belied. “My dear Page, do you believe in the instrumentality of coincidence?”
My confusion was patent, and she went on. “Because, whatever you have believed, you must believe in it from this night. Do you know what has happened to Margery Gans?”
“What?” I gasped.