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was—er—”
    â€œSumming me up. And not flatteringly, alas. Is an unkind return for an innocuous remark.”
    â€œTo tell a lady you scarce know that she is enchanting, is not innocuous, Mr. de Villars!”
    He leaned closer, his eyes quizzing her wickedly, his long-fingered hand straying dangerously close to her own upon the tablecloth. “Then we must better our acquaintance, and speedily, so that I can tell you how truly enchanting you are.”
    Rebecca snatched her hand back and began to ply her fan. “I expect your lovely partner must be sighing for you, sir.”
    â€œOh, no. Rosemary is accustomed to my comings and goings. And I left her in good hands.”
    â€œIndeed?” Hoping that her down-drooping eyelids would convey her utter boredom with him, his lightskirt, and his comings and goings, Rebecca looked elsewhere. And thus found herself gazing straight at The Monahan and the “good hands” in which she had been “left.” Her eyes widened in dismay. She turned away at once, but de Villars had seen and, raising his quizzing glass, directed a keen stare in the same direction. His brows went up. “Aha,” he murmured, “my dear friend Ward. So that is the way the wind blows.…” He grinned as Rebecca’s haughty stare returned to him and, with a revoltingly sympathetic air, remarked, “You waste your hopes, my dear. Peter, alas, is not in the petticoat line.”
    â€œOh!” she gasped, shutting her fan with a snap. “Oh! How dare you!”
    He stood, leant one hand on the table, and said, soft-voiced, “Here comes your military rattle, so I shall leave you. For the time. But—you have much to learn, ma’am, about what I would—dare.”
    Rebecca smiled past him and said warmly, “How nice that looks, Hilary. I am very ready to do it justice.”
    The major, a laden plate in each hand, frowned from the flushed cheeks of the lady to the sneer on the face of the gentleman. “Look here, de Villars,” he began.
    â€œAs you wish,” said de Villars, equably. “Ah, yes. An excellent selection. Thank you, Broadbent.” And appropriating a cheese tart, he bowed to the lady, waved his prize in appreciation to the scowling officer, and wandered off.
    Rebecca’s sense of humour, seldom far from the surface, was tickled by such blatant insolence, and she struggled to subdue a giggle. The major did not share her amusement. “That … fellow!” he fumed.
    â€œDe Villars?” she said, with arch unconcern. “Is he not droll?”
    Broadbent ground his teeth and, looking after that debonair departing figure, snarled, “Droll … indeed.”
    *   *   *
    â€œIt is that wretched de Villars,” Rebecca hissed. “He means to bring me to a stand, I know it! I’ve had scarce two words with Sir Peter all evening!”
    Mrs. Boothe, sharing the secluded sofa in the wide corridor, had a rather different notion of what Mr. Trevelyan de Villars intended to bring Rebecca to, but, her eyes lighting suddenly, she murmured, “Then he has not yet succeeded, love. Here is Sir Peter coming.”
    Their host hastened towards them, bowed gallantly to Mrs. Boothe, and implored that she permit him to capture her niece for a stroll in the garden. “For if I have to dance another quadrille,” he said with his grave smile, “I vow the soles of my shoes will melt away.”
    Her heartbeat quickening, Rebecca placed her little hand on his sleeve and allowed herself to be led into the garden.
    The night, which before had seemed rather muggy, now became all delight. The moon, hitherto here and gone in a vexing way, was a glory, peeping shyly from behind the lacy fragments of slow-drifting clouds. For the first time, Rebecca noticed the heady fragrance of the flowers, and she seemed more to float than walk beside this splendid young man. He