h Egbert and Athelstane.
Among the stream of strangers there would be at least two home objects
upon which she might occasionally cast anchor. The thought of that
buoyed her up as the taxi whirled them down hill to Grovebury.

The Desmonds were giving the dance as a coming-out for one of their own
daughters, and their house was _en fete_. An awning protected the porch,
red cloth carpeted the steps, a marquee filled the lawn, and a stringed
band from Birkshaw had been engaged to play the latest dance music.

Quenrede passed calmly enough through the ordeals of leaving her cloak
in the dressing-room (where a crowd of girls were prinking, and there
was no room for even a glance in the mirror), and the greeting from her
host and hostess in the drawing-room. It was in the ball-room afterwards
that her agony began. Egbert and Athelstane were whisked away from her
to be introduced to other girls, and utter strangers, whose names she
seldom caught, were brought to her, took her program, recorded their
initials and passed on to book other partners. The few people in the
marquee whom she knew were too far away or too occupied to speak to her,
so she stood alone, and heartily wished herself at home.

It was better when the dancing began, though her partners scared her
horribly. They all made exactly the same remarks about the excellence of
the floor, the taste of the decorations, and the beauty of the music,
and asked her if she had been to the pantomime, and whether she played
golf. Small talk is an art, and though Quenrede had many interests, and
in ordinary circumstances could have discussed them, to-night she felt
tongue-tied, and let the ball of conversation drop with a "yes" or "no"
or "very." Dances with strangers who expected her to talk were bad
enough, but the gaps in her program were worse. No doubt Mrs. Desmond
tried to look after all her guests, but several gentlemen had
disappointed her at the last minute, and there were not quite partners
enough to go round. At a young people's party Quenrede would have
cheerily danced with some other girl in like plight, but at this stiff
grown-up gathering she dared not suggest such an informality, and
remained a wallflower. She caught glimpses occasionally of Egbert and
Athelstane, the former apparently enjoying himself, the latter looking
as solemn as if he were in church.

"I know the poor boy's counting his steps and trying not to tread on
anybody's toes!" thought Quenrede.