Only--men were men. And safe and sane friendships between men of his own caste, and girls like Athalie Greensleeve, were rare.
Clive chafed and became restive and morose. In vain he repeated to himself that what Athalie was doing was perfectly natural. But it didn't make the idea of her going out with other men any more attractive to him.
His clever mother, possibly aware of what ferment was working in her son, watched him out of the tail of her ornamental eyes, but wisely let him alone to fidget his own way out of it. She had heard that the Greensleeve girl was raising hob with Cecil Reeve and Francis Hargrave. They were other people's sons, however. And it might have worked itself out of Clive--this restless ferment which soured his mind and gave him an acid satisfaction in being anything but cordial in his own family circle.
But there was a girl--a débutante, very desirable for Clive his mother thought--one Winifred Stuart--and very delightful to look upon.
And Clive had seen just enough of her to like her exceedingly; and, at dances, had even wandered about to look for her, and had evinced boredom and dissatisfaction when she had not been present.
Which inspired his mother to give a theatre party for little Miss Stuart and two dozen other youngsters, and a supper at the Regina afterward.
It was an excellent idea; and it went as wrong as such excellent ideas so often go. For as Clive in company with the others sauntered into the splendid reception room of the Regina, he saw Athalie come in with a man whom he had never before seen.
The shock of recognition--for it was a shock--was mutual. Athalie's dark eyes widened and a little colour left her cheeks: and Clive reddened painfully.
It was, perhaps, scarcely the thing to do, but as she advanced he stepped forward, and their hands met.
"I am so very glad to see you again," he said.
"Quite," she hesitated; there was a moment's pause while the two men looked coolly at each other.
"May I present Mr. Bailey, Captain Dane?" Further she did not account for Captain Dane, who presently took her off somewhere leaving Clive to return to his smiling but enraged mother.
Never had he found any supper party so noisy, so mirthless, and so endless. Half the time he didn't know what he was saying to Winifred Stuart or to anybody else. Nor could he seem to see anybody very distinctly, for the mental phantoms of Athalie and Captain Dane floated persistently before him, confusing everything at moments except the smiling and deadly glance of his mother.
