Again and again Hamil, wandering in circles, looked across the wilderness of women’s hats at Shiela Cardross, but a dozen men surrounded her, and among them he noticed the graceful figure of Malcourt directly in front of her, blocking any signal he might have given.

Somebody was saying something about Mrs. Ascott.  He recollected that he hadn’t met her; so he found somebody to present him.

“And you are the man?” exclaimed Mrs. Ascott softly, considering him with her head on one side.  “Shiela Cardross wrote to me in New York about you, but I’ve wanted to inspect you for my own information.”

“Are you doing it now?” he asked, amused.

“It’s done!  Do you imagine you are complex?  I’ve heard various tales about you from three sources, to-day; from an old friend, Louis Malcourt—­from another, Virginia Suydam—­and steadily during the last month—­including to-day—­from Shiela Cardross.  But I couldn’t find a true verdict until the accused appeared personally before me.  Tell me, Mr. Hamil, do you plead guilty to being as amiable as the somewhat contradictory evidence indicates?”

“Parole me in custody of this court and let me convince your Honor,” said Hamil, looking into the captivatingly cool and humourous face upturned to his.

Mrs. Ascott was small, and finely moulded; something of the miniature grande dame in porcelain.  The poise of her head, the lifted chin, every detail in the polished and delicately tinted surface reflected cool experience of the world and of men.  Yet the eyes were young, and there was no hardness in them, and the mouth seemed curiously unfashioned for worldly badinage—­a very wistful, full-lipped mouth that must have been disciplined in some sad school to lose its cheerfulness in repose.

“I am wondering,” she said, “why Mr. Portlaw does not come and talk to me.  We are neighbors in the country, you know; I live at Pride’s Fall.  I don’t think it’s particularly civil of him to avoid me.”

“I can’t imagine anybody, including Portlaw, avoiding you,” he said.

“We were such good friends—­I don’t know—­he behaved very badly to me last autumn.”

They chatted together for a moment or two in the same inconsequential vein, then, other people being presented, she nodded an amiable dismissal; and, as he stepped aside, held out her hand.

“There are a lot of things I’d like to ask you some day; one is about a park for me at Pride’s Fall—­oh, the tiniest sort of a park, only it should be quite formal in all its miniature details.  Will you let Shiela bring you for a little conference? Soon?”

He promised and took his leave, elated at the chances of a new commission, hunting through the constantly arriving and departing throngs for Shiela.  And presently he encountered his aunt.

“You certainly do neglect me,” she said with her engaging and care-free laugh.  “Where have you been for a week?”