“‘Boots!’ Here!”

“Arrived from Manila Sunday. Sans gene as usual he introduced you as the subject, and told me—­oh, dozens of things about you.  I suppose he began inquiring for you before he crossed the troopers’ gangplank; and somebody sent him to Neergard & Co.  Haven’t you seen him?”

“No,” he said, staring at the brilliant fish, which glided along the crystal tank, goggling their eyes at the lights.

“You—­you are living with the Gerards, I believe,” she said carelessly.

“For a while.”

“Oh, ‘Boots’ says that he is expecting to take an apartment with you somewhere.”

“What!  Has ‘Boots’ resigned?”

“So he says.  He told me that you had resigned.  I did not understand that; I imagined you were here on leave until I heard about Neergard & Co.”

“Do you suppose I could have remained in the service?” he demanded.  His voice was dry and almost accentless.

“Why not?” she returned, paling.

“You may answer that question more pleasantly than I can.”

She usually avoided champagne; but she had to do something for herself now.  As for him, he took what was offered without noticing what he took, and grew whiter and whiter; but a fixed glow gradually appeared and remained on her cheeks; courage, impatience, a sudden anger at the forced conditions steadied her nerves.

“Will you please prove equal to the situation?” she said under her breath, but with a charming smile.  “Do you know you are scowling?  These people here are ready to laugh; and I’d much prefer that they tear us to rags on suspicion of our over-friendliness.”

“Who is that fool woman who is monopolising your partner?”

“Rosamund Fane; she’s doing it on purpose.  You must try to smile now and then.”

“My face is stiff with grinning,” he said, “but I’ll do what I can for you—­”

“Please include yourself, too.”

“Oh, I can stand their opinions,” he said; “I only meet the yellow sort occasionally; I don’t herd with them.”

“I do, thank you.”

“How do you like them?  What is your opinion of the yellow set?  Here they sit all about you—­the Phoenix Mottlys, Mrs. Delmour-Carnes yonder, the Draymores, the Orchils, the Vendenning lady, the Lawns of Westlawn—­” he paused, then deliberately—­“and the ‘Jack’ Ruthvens.  I forgot, Alixe, that you are now perfectly equipped to carry aloft the golden hod.”

“Go on,” she said, drawing a deep breath, but the fixed smile never altered.

“No,” he said; “I can’t talk.  I thought I could, but I can’t.  Take that boy away from Mrs. Fane as soon as you can.”

“I can’t yet.  You must go on.  I ask your aid to carry this thing through.  I—­I am afraid of their ridicule.  Could you try to help me a little?”

“If you put it that way, of course.”  And, after a silence, “What am I to say?  What in God’s name shall I say to you, Alixe?”