Thessalie Dunois on
his left:

"It's quite wonderful, Thessa, to have you here--to be actually seated
beside you at my own table. I shall not let you slip away from me
again, you enchanting ghost!--and leave me with a dislocated heart."

"Garry, that sounds almost sentimental. We're not, you know."

"How do I know? You never gave me a chance to be sentimental."

She laughed mirthlessly:

"Never gave you a chance? And our brief but headlong career together,
monsieur? What was it but a continuous cataract of chances?"

"But we were laughing our silly heads off every minute! I had no
opportunity."

That seemed to amuse her and awaken the ever-latent humour in her.

"Opportunity," she observed demurely, "should be created and taken,
not shyly awaited with eyes rolled upward and a sucked thumb."

They both laughed outright. Her colour rose; the old humorous
challenge was in her eyes again; the subtle mask was already slipping
from her features, revealing them in all their charming recklessness.

"You know my creed," she said; "to go forward--laugh--and accept what
Destiny sends you--still laughing!" Her smile altered again, became,
for a moment, strange and vague. "God knows that is what I am doing
to-night," she murmured, lifting her slim glass, in which the gush of
sunny bubbles caught the candlelight. "To Destiny--whatever it may be!
Drink with me, Garry!"

Around them the chatter and vivacity increased, as Damaris ended a
duel of wit with Westmore and prepared for battle with Corot Mandel.
Everybody seemed to be irresponsibly loquacious except Dulcie, who sat
between Barres and Esme Trenor, a silent, smiling, reserved little
listener. For Barres was still conversationally involved with
Thessalie, and Esme Trenor, languid and detached, being entirely
ignored by Damaris, whom he had taken out, awaited his own proper
modicum of worship from his silent little neighbour on his left--which
tribute he took for granted was his sacred due, and which, hitherto,
he had invariably received from woman.

But nobody seemed to be inclined to worship; Damaris scarcely deigned
to notice him, his impudence, perhaps, still rankling. Thessalie,
laughingly engaged with Barres, remained oblivious to the fashionable
portrait painter. As for Elsena Helmund, that youthful matron was
busily pretending to comprehend Corot Mandel's covert orientalisms,
and secretly wondering whether they were, perhaps, as improper as
Westmore kept wh