As Honora danced, Chiltern remained in the back of her mind, or rather an indefinite impression was there which in flashes she connected with him. She wondered, at times, what had become of him, and once or twice she caught herself scanning the bewildering, shifting sheen of gowns and jewels for his face. At last she saw him by the windows, holding a favour in his hand, coming in her direction. She looked away, towards the red uniforms of the Hungarian band on the raised platform at the end of the room. He was standing beside her.
“Do you remember me, Mrs. Spence?” he asked.
She glanced up at him and smiled. He was not a person one would be likely to forget, but she did not say so.
“I met you at Mrs. Granger's,” was what she said.
He handed her the favour. She placed it amongst the collection at the back of her chair and rose, and they danced. Was it dancing? The music throbbed; nay, the musicians seemed suddenly to have been carried out of themselves, and played as they had not played before. Her veins were filled with pulsing fire as she was swung, guided, carried out of herself by the extraordinary virility of the man who held her. She had tasted mastery.
“Thank you,” she faltered, as they came around the second time to her seat.
He released her.
“I stayed to dance with you,” he said. “I had to await my opportunity.”
“It was kind of you to remember me,” she replied, as she went off with Mr. Carrington.
A moment later she saw him bidding good night to his hostess. His face, she thought, had not lost that strange look of determination that she recalled. And yet—how account for his recklessness?