She started when the young army officer nearest her said: "Speaking of sailing, give me a steam-yacht like the one that berthed yesterday at Yokohama. She belongs to a man named Ware--Austen Ware--a New Yorker, I understand. Perhaps you know him, Miss Fairfax."
The young army officer looked up quickly--he was an enthusiastic yachtsman. "A beautiful vessel!" he said. "I noticed her to-day, but she was too far away to make out her name."
"Why--" exclaimed Patricia, "that's--" She bit her tongue, caught by something in Barbara's face. "Good gracious!" she ended. "My--my foot's asleep!"
Barbara had felt her flush fading to paleness. She felt a quick relief that none there, save Patricia and Daunt, knew her first name. In the diversion caused by Patricia's helpless efforts to stand up, she stole a glance at Daunt.
A shadow had fallen on his face. He did not look at her, but in his brain the yacht's name was ringing like a knell. She knew Phil's brother! Austen Ware's yacht had arrived in Yokohama on the same day as her ship. And it was named the _Barbara_. Yet to-night he had dreamed--what had he been dreaming? These thoughts mixed themselves weirdly with the gaiety and nonsense that he forced himself to render.
Barbara felt this with an aching sense of resentment. What was he thinking of her? And why should she care so fiercely? The courses passed, but the lightness and blitheness of the scene were somehow chilled. The decorative food: the numberless, tiny cups and trays; the taper, pink-tinted fingers that poured the warm drink; the _kimono_, the music and lights,--all palled.
She was glad when the Baroness decreed the dinner over by repeating Patricia's experiment of painful unfolding, and calling for her wraps.
The street into which they trooped seemed an oriental opera-bouffe: swaying, chatting people in loose, light-colored _kimono_, some carrying crested paper lanterns tied to the ends of short rods: a thousand lights and hues flashing and weaving. But for two of the party the colors had lost their warmth and the movement its fascination.
"I simply _can't_ coop up yet in a _rick'sha_!" pleaded Patricia, as they donned their discarded shoes. "Why not walk a little?" The proposal met with a chorus of approval. They set out together, and presently Barbara found Daunt beside her. Her resentment did not cool as she laughed and talked mechanically, acutely aware that he was answering in monosyllables or with silence.