“We’ll dine first,” said Julius, “and dance afterward.  There is the programme!”

He led the way to the tables, with the two ladies nearest to him—­utterly careless whether they were or were not among the ladies of the highest rank then present.  To Lady Lundie’s astonishment he took the first seat he came to, without appearing to care what place he occupied at his own feast.  The guests, following his example, sat where they pleased, reckless of precedents and dignities.  Mrs. Delamayn, feeling a special interest in a young lady who was shortly to be a bride, took Blanche’s arm.  Lady Lundie attached herself resolutely to her hostess on the other side.  The three sat together.  Mrs. Delamayn did her best to encourage Blanche to talk, and Blanche did her best to meet the advances made to her.  The experiment succeeded but poorly on either side.  Mrs. Delamayn gave it up in despair, and turned to Lady Lundie, with a strong suspicion that some unpleasant subject of reflection was preying privately on the bride’s mind.  The conclusion was soundly drawn.  Blanche’s little outbreak of temper with her friend on the terrace, and Blanche’s present deficiency of gayety and spirit, were attributable to the same cause.  She hid it from her uncle, she hid it from Arnold—­but she was as anxious as ever, and as wretched as ever, about Anne; and she was still on the watch (no matter what Sir Patrick might say or do) to seize the first opportunity of renewing the search for her lost friend.

Meanwhile the eating, the drinking, and the talking went merrily on.  The band played its liveliest melodies; the servants kept the glasses constantly filled:  round all the tables gayety and freedom reigned supreme.  The one conversation in progress, in which the talkers were not in social harmony with each other, was the conversation at Blanche’s side, between her step-mother and Mrs. Delamayn.

Among Lady Lundie’s other accomplishments the power of making disagreeable discoveries ranked high.  At the dinner in the glade she had not failed to notice—­what every body else had passed over—­the absence at the festival of the hostess’s brother-in-law; and more remarkable still, the disappearance of a lady who was actually one of the guests staying in the house:  in plainer words, the disappearance of Mrs. Glenarm.

“Am I mistaken?” said her ladyship, lifting her eye-glass, and looking round the tables.  “Surely there is a member of our party missing?  I don’t see Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn.”

“Geoffrey promised to be here.  But he is not particularly attentive, as you may have noticed, to keeping engagements of this sort.  Every thing is sacrificed to his training.  We only see him at rare intervals now.”

With that reply Mrs. Delamayn attempted to change the subject.  Lady Lundie lifted her eye-glass, and looked round the tables for the second time.

“Pardon me,” persisted her ladyship—­“but is it possible that I have discovered another absentee?  I don’t see Mrs. Glenarm.  Yet surely she must be here!  Mrs. Glenarm is not training for a foot-race.  Do you see her? I don’t.”