Sheer noise, stupefying, abominable, incredible, unending, greeted the birth of the New Year; they were dancing in circles, singing, cheering amid the crash of glasses.  Table-cloths, silken gowns, flowers were crushed and trampled under foot; flushed faces looked into strange faces, laughing; eyes strange to other eyes smiled; strange hands exchanged clasps with hands unknown; the whirl had become a madness.

And, suddenly, in its vortex, Neville saw Valerie West.  Somebody had set her on a table amid the silver and flowers and splintered crystal.  Her face was flushed, eyes and mouth brilliant, her gown almost torn from her left shoulder and fluttering around the lovely arm in wisps and rags of silk and lace.  Querida supported her there.

They pelted her with flowers and confetti, and she threw roses back at everybody, snatching her ammunition from a great basket which Querida held for her.

Ogilvy and Annan saw her and opened fire on her with a cheer, and she recognised them and replied with volleys of rosebuds—­was in the act of hurling her last blossom—­caught sight of Neville where he stood with Mazie on a chair behind him, her arms resting on his shoulders.  And the last rose dropped from her hand.

Querida turned, too, inquiringly; recognised Neville; and for a second his olive cheeks reddened; then with a gay laugh he passed his arm around Valerie and, coolly facing the bombardment of confetti and flowers, swung her from the table to the floor.

A furious little battle of flowers began at his own table, but Neville was already lost in the throng, making his way toward the door, pelted, shouldered, blocked, tormented—­but, indifferent, unresponsive, forcing his path to the outer air.

Once or twice voices called his name, but he scarcely heard them.  Then a hand caught at his; and a breathless voice whispered: 

“Are you going?”

“Yes,” he said, dully.

“Why?”

“I’ve had enough—­of the New Year.”

Breathing fast, the colour in her face coming and going, she stood, vivid lips parted, regarding him.  Then, in a low voice: 

“I didn’t know you were to be here, Louis.”

“Nor I. It was an accident.”

“Who was the—­girl—­”

“What girl?”

“She stood behind you with her hands on your shoulders.”

“How the devil do I know,” he said, savagely—­“her name’s
Mazie—­something—­or—­other.”

“Did you bring her?”

“Yes.  Did Querida bring you?” he asked, insolently.

[Illustration:  “And the last rose dropped from her hand.”]

She looked at him in a confused, bewildered way—­laid her hand on his sleeve with an impulse as though he had been about to strike her.

He no longer knew what he was doing in the sudden surge of unreasoning anger that possessed him; he shook her hand from his sleeve and turned.