g man's aunt.

That Hamil was already in love with Shiela Cardross had become painfully
plainer to her every time she saw him. True, others were in love with
Miss Cardross; that state of mind and heart seemed to be chronic at Palm
Beach. Gussie Vetchen openly admitted his distinguished consideration,
and Courtlandt Classon toddled busily about Shiela's court, and even the
forlorn Cuyp had become disgustingly unfaithful and no longer wrinkled
his long Dutch nose into a series of white corrugations when Wayward
took Miss Palliser away from him. Alas! the entire male world seemed to
trot in the wake of this sweet-eyed young Circe, emitting appealingly
gentle and propitiating grunts.

"The very deuce is in that girl!" thought Constance, exasperated; "and
the sooner Garry goes North the better. He's madly unhappy over her....
Fascinating little thing! _I_ can't blame him too much--except that he
evidently realises he can't marry such a person--"

The chair rolled into the hotel grounds under the arch of jasmine. The
orchestra was playing in the colonnade; tea had been served under the
cocoa-nut palms; pretty faces and gay toilets glimmered familiarly as
the chair swept along the edge of the throng.

"Tell the chair-boy that we'll tea here, Jim," said Miss Palliser,
catching sight of her nephew and the guilty Circe under whose gentle
thrall Hamil was now boldly imbibing a swizzle.

So Wayward nodded to the charioteer, the chair halted, and he and
Constance disembarked and advanced across the grass to exchange
amenities with friends and acquaintances. Which formalities always
fretted Wayward, and he stood about, morose and ungracious, while
Constance floated prettily here and there, and at last turned with
nicely prepared surprise to encounter Shiela and Hamil seated just
behind her.

The younger girl, rising, met her more than half-way with gloved hand
frankly offered; Wayward turned to Hamil in subdued relief.

"Lord! I've been looking at those confounded alligators and listening to
Vetchen's and Cuyp's twaddle! Constance wouldn't talk; and I'm quite
unfit for print. What's that in your glass, Garry?"

"A swizzle--"

"Anything in it except lime-juice and buzz?"

"Yes--"

"Then I won't have one. Constance! Are you drinking tea?"

"Do you want some?" she asked, surprised.

"Yes, I do--if you can give me some without asking how many lumps I
take--like the inevitable heroine in a British work of fiction--"

"Ji