ow of the pretty young girl, said to Davidge:

"Are you taking me out or--"

It was a horrible moment, for all its unimportance, but he mumbled:

"I--I am sorry, but--er--Miss Webling--"

"Oh! Ah!" said Lady Clifton-Wyatt. It was a very short "Oh!" and a
very long "Ah!" a sort of gliding, crushing "Ah!" It went over him
like a tank, leaving him flat.

Lady Clifton-Wyatt reached Sir Hector's arm in a few strides and
unhooked him from the girl--also the girl from him. The girl was
grateful. Sir Hector was used to disappointments.

Davidge went to Marie Louise, who stood lonely and distraught. He felt
ashamed of his word "sorry" and hoped she hadn't heard it. Silently
and crudely he angled his arm, and she took it and went along with him
in a somnambulism.

Davidge, manlike, tried to cheer up his elbow-mate by a compliment. A
man's first aid to a woman in distress is a compliment or a few pats
of the hand. He said:

"This is the second big dinner you and I have attended. There were
bushels of flowers between us before, but I'd rather see your face
than a ton of roses."

The compliment fell out like a ton of coal. He did not like it at all.
She seemed not to have heard him, for she murmured:

"Yis, isn't it?"

Then, as the occultists say, he went into the silence. There is
nothing busier than a silence at a dinner. The effort to think with no
outlet in speech kept up such a roaring in his head that he could
hardly grasp what the rest were saying.

Lady Clifton-Wyatt sat at Davidge's right and kept invading his quiet
communion with Marie Louise by making remarks of the utmost
graciousness somehow fermented--like wine turned vinegar.

"I wonder if you remember when we met in London, Mr. Davidge? It was
just after the poor _Lusitania_ was sunk."

"So it was," said Davidge.

"It was at Sir Joseph Webling's. You knew he was dead, didn't you? Or
did you?"

"Yes, Miss Webling told me."

"Oh, did she! I was curious to know."

She cast a look past him at Marie Louise and saw that the girl was
about ready to make a scene. She smiled and deferred further torture.

Mrs. Prothero supervened. She had the beautiful theory that the way to
make her guests happy was to get them to talking about themselves. She
tried to draw Davidge out of his shell. But he talked about her
husband instead, and of the great work he had done for the navy. He
turned the tables of graciousness on her. Her nod recognized the
chivalry; he