Garratt Skinner opened a fresh bottle of champagne—­the supply by now was getting low—­and came round the table with it.  As he held the neck of the bottle to the brim of Hine’s glass he caught an appealing look from his daughter.  At once he lifted the bottle and left the glass unfilled.  As he passed Sylvia, she said in a low voice: 

“Thank you,” and he whispered back: 

“You are quite right, my dear.  Interest him so that he doesn’t notice that I have left his glass empty.”

Sylvia set herself then to talk to Wallie Hine.  But he was intent on making her understand what great successes had been his.  He would talk, and it troubled her that all listened, and listened with an air of admiration.  Even her father from his side of the table smiled indulgently.  Yet the stories, or rather the hints of stories, were certainly untrue.  For this her wanderings had taught her—­the man of many successes never talks.  It seemed that there was a conspiracy to flatter the wretched youth.

“Yes, yes.  You have been a devil of a fellow among the women, Wallie,” said Captain Barstow.  But at once Garratt Skinner interfered and sharply: 

“Come, come, Barstow!  That’s no language to use before my daughter.”

Captain Barstow presented at the moment a remarkable gradation of color.  On the top was the bald head, very shiny and white, below that a face now everywhere a deep red except where the swollen veins stood out upon the surface of his cheeks, and those were purple, and this in its turn was enclosed by the black square beard.  He bowed at once to Garratt Skinner’s rebuke.

“I apologize.  I do indeed, Miss Sylvia!  But when I was in the service we still clung to the traditions of Wellington by—­by George.  And it’s hard to break oneself of the habit.  ‘Red-hot,’” he said, with a chuckle.  “That’s what they called me in the regiment.  Red-hot Barstow.  I’ll bet that Red-hot Barstow is still pretty well remembered among the boys at Cheltenham.”

“Swearing’s bad form nowadays,” said Archie Parminter, superciliously.  “They have given it up at the clubs.”

Sylvia seized the moment and rose from the table.  Her father sprang forward and opened the door.

“We will join you in a few minutes,” he said.

Sylvia went down the passage to the room at the back of the house in which she had been presented by her father to his friends.  She rang the bell at once and when the servant came she said: 

“I gave you a letter to post this evening.  I should like to have it back.”

“I am sorry, miss, but it’s posted.”

“I am sorry, too,” said Sylvia, quietly.

The letter had been written to Chayne, and gave him the address of this house as the place where he might find her if he called.  She had no thought of going away.  She had made her choice for good or ill and must abide by it.  That she knew.  But she was no longer sure that she wished Captain Chayne to come and find her there.