A Popular Schoolgirl, Angela Brazil [big screen ebook reader txt] 📗

stream of society. Looked at critically, her appearance was very satisfactory. Though the new dress might not be up to the level of a fashion-plate, it certainly became her, and set off the pretty fair face, white neck, and coils of gleaming flaxen hair.

“Your gloves and shoes and stockings are all right, and you’ve got a nice handkerchief, and your fan,” reviewed Mother, wrapping an evening cloak round her handiwork. “Goodbye, my bird! Enjoy yourself, and don’t be silly and shy.”

“I shall keep awake till you come back!” Ingred assured her.

It was something at any rate to be going with Egbert and Athelstane. Among the stream of strangers there would be at least two home objects upon which she might occasionally cast anchor. The thought of that buoyed her up as the taxi whirled them down hill to Grovebury.

The Desmonds were giving the dance as a coming-out for one of their own daughters, and their house was en fête. An awning protected the porch, red cloth carpeted the steps, a marquee filled the lawn, and a stringed band from Birkshaw had been engaged to play the latest dance music.

Quenrede passed calmly enough through the ordeals of leaving her cloak in the dressing-room (where a crowd of girls were prinking, and there was no room for even a glance in the mirror), and the greeting from her host and hostess in the drawing-room. It was in the ballroom afterwards that her agony began. Egbert and Athelstane were whisked away from her to be introduced to other girls, and utter strangers, whose names she seldom caught, were brought to her, took her program, recorded their initials and passed on to book other partners. The few people in the marquee whom she knew were too far away or too occupied to speak to her, so she stood alone, and heartily wished herself at home.

It was better when the dancing began, though her partners scared her horribly. They all made exactly the same remarks about the excellence of the floor, the taste of the decorations, and the beauty of the music, and asked her if she had been to the pantomime, and whether she played golf. Small talk is an art, and though Quenrede had many interests, and in ordinary circumstances could have discussed them, tonight she felt tongue-tied, and let the ball of conversation drop with a “yes” or “no” or “very.” Dances with strangers who expected her to talk were bad enough, but the gaps in her program were worse. No doubt Mrs. Desmond tried to look after all her guests, but several gentlemen had disappointed her at the last minute, and there were not quite partners enough to go round. At a young people’s party Quenrede would have cheerily danced with some other girl in like plight, but at this stiff grownup gathering she dared not suggest such an informality, and remained a wallflower. She caught glimpses occasionally of Egbert and Athelstane, the former apparently enjoying himself, the latter looking as solemn as if he were in church.

“I know the poor boy’s counting his steps and trying not to tread on anybody’s toes!” thought Quenrede. “Ingred said his partners would have to pull him around somehow.”

Supper was a diversion, for she was taken in by quite a nice redheaded boy, a little younger than herself, who, after a manful effort to talk up to her supposed level, thankfully relapsed into details of football-matches. Being a nephew of the house, he proved an adept in attracting the most tempting dishes of fruit or trifle to their particular table, and even basely commandeered other people’s crackers for her benefit. She bade him goodbye with regret.

“I say, I wish my card wasn’t full! I’d have liked a dance with you!” he murmured wistfully as they left the supper-room.

If only she had known people better, and the atmosphere had not seemed so stiff and formal, and she had not been so miserably shy, Quenrede might have enjoyed herself. As it was she began counting the hours. In one of the wallflower gaps of her program she took a stroll into the conservatory. It looked like fairyland with the colored lanterns hanging among the palms and flowers. Somebody else was apparently enjoying the pretty effect⁠—somebody who turned round rather guiltily as if he were caught; then at sight of her smiled in relief.

“I thought you were one of my hostesses come to round me up to do my duty,” he confessed. “I’m a duffer at dancing, so I’ve taken cover in here. I see you don’t remember me, but we’ve met before⁠—at Red Ridge Barrow. My name’s Broughten.”

“Why, of course! You had a piece of candle and showed us inside the mound. I ought to have known you again, but⁠—you look so different⁠—”

“In evening dress! So do you; but I recognized you in a minute. Look here” (in sudden compunction), “am I keeping you from a partner?”

“No more than I am keeping you!” twinkled Quenrede, pointing to the empty line on her program. “I’m not dancing this, so I came here to⁠—to enjoy myself.”

Her companion laughed in swift comprehension.

“I don’t know how other people may find it,” he confided, “but hour after hour of this sort of thing gets on my nerves. A tramp over the moor is far more my line of amusement. I was wishing I might go home!”

“So was I!”

“But there’s still at least another hour and a half.”

“With extras, more!” admitted Quenrede.

He held out his hand for her program. “I’m an idiot at dancing, but would you mind sitting out a few with me?”

“If you won’t talk about the floor and the decorations and the band, and ask me whether I’ve been to the pantomime, or if I like golf!”

“I promise that those topics shall be utterly and absolutely taboo. I’m sick of them myself.”

Quenrede’s shyness, which was only an outer casing, had suddenly disappeared in the presence of a fellow-victim of social conventions, and conversation came easily, all the more