After a little while he followed, pursuing his way very leisurely to his own quarters.  Half an hour later when she emerged with her maid, Selwyn was not waiting for her as usual; and, scarcely understanding that she was finding an excuse for lingering, she stood for ten minutes on the step of the Orchils’ touring-car, talking to Gladys about the lantern fete and dance to be given that night at Hitherwood House.

Evidently Selwyn had already gone home.  Gerald came lagging up with Sheila Minster; but his sister did not ask him whether Selwyn had gone.  Yesterday she would have done so; but to-day had brought to her the strangest sensation of her young life—­a sudden and overpowering fear of a friend; and yet, strangest of all, the very friend she feared she was waiting for—­contriving to find excuses to wait for.  Surely he could not have finished dressing and have gone.  He had never before done that.  Why did he not come?  It was late; people were leaving the pavilion; victorias and beach-phaetons were trundling off loaded to the water-line with fat dowagers; gay groups passed, hailing her or waving adieux; Drina drove up in her village-cart, calling out:  “Are you coming, Eileen, or are you going to walk over?  Hurry up!  I’m hungry.”

“I’ll go with you,” she said, nodding adieu to Gladys; and she swung off the step and crossed the shell road.

“Jump in,” urged the child; “I’m in a dreadful hurry, and Odin can’t trot very fast.”

“I’d prefer to drive slowly,” said Miss Erroll in a colourless voice; and seated herself in the village-cart.

“Why must I drive slowly?” demanded the child.  “I’m hungry; besides, I haven’t seen Boots this morning.  I don’t want to drive slowly; must I?”

“Which are you most in a hurry for?” asked Eileen curiously; “luncheon or Boots?”

“Both—­I don’t know.  What a silly question.  Boots of course!  But I’m starving, too.”

“Boots?  Of course?”

“Certainly.  He always comes first—­just like Captain Selwyn with you.”

“Like Captain Selwyn with me,” she repeated absently; “certainly; Captain Selwyn should be first, everything else second.  But how did you find out that, Drina?”

“Why, anybody can see that,” said the child contemptuously; “you are as fast friends with Uncle Philip as I am with Boots.  And why you don’t marry him I can’t see—­unless you’re not old enough.  Are you?”

“Yes. . . .  I am old enough, dear.”

“Then why don’t you?  If I was old enough to marry Boots I’d do it.  Why don’t you?”

“I don’t know,” said Miss Erroll, as though speaking to herself.

Drina glanced at her, then flourished her be-ribboned whip, which whistling threat had no perceptible effect on the fat, red, Norwegian pony.

“I’ll tell you what,” said the child, “if you don’t ask Uncle Philip pretty soon somebody will ask him first, and you’ll be too late.  As soon as I saw Boots I knew that I wanted him for myself, and I told him so.  He said he was very glad I had spoken, because he was expecting a proposal by wireless from the young Sultana-elect of Leyte.  Now,” added the child with satisfaction, “she can’t have him.  It’s better to be in time, you see.”