Berlie Hallett possessed a London godmother in the shape of an aunt who sent her an occasional frock, and her white-tulle-and-forget-me-nots was all that it should have been except that it had turned to an ashen creamy hue, possessed a long tear down the back (unskilfully concealed by a ribbon sash), lacked about six yards of lace (accidentally ripped off the flounces), and was minus a few dozen posies of forget-me-nots (now in the possession of various amorous young men). Berlie no more than her friend Gay was a sit-by-the-fire-and-mend creature. They were real, live, out-of-door, golfing, hard-riding girls, full of spirits and gaiety and _joie de vivre_.
Berlie, at that moment, was dancing with all her soul as well as her feet, melted in the arms of Johnny Doran, a rich rancher who had proposed to her eight times and whom she intended should propose another ten before she finally refused him. But Gay, the best dancer in Rhodesia, was not dancing. Her feet were tingling, and the music was in her brain like wine, and her heart was burning, and her eyes, though not turned that way, were watching, with impatient wrath, the door across the room. But with her lips she smiled at the little group of clamouring, protesting men about her, and gave out one brief statement.
"Which one?" they clamoured, like a lot of school-boys. "And why? It's the same pair you danced to the dawn in last week--why should it hurt you now? And why does one hurt you? Why not two? Who will bet that it won't stop hurting after this dance?" they inquired of one another, "and who is the man it is hurting for?"
Gay surveyed them dispassionately with her misty, violet eyes.
"Don't be silly," said she serenely; "my shoe hurts."
They gave her up as hopeless and faded away, one by one, bent on finding someone to finish the waltz with. Men out-numbered girls by about four to one in Wankelo. Only Tryon stayed, lounging against the wall, smiling subtly to himself.
"There's Molly Tring just coming in," said Gay to him. "You'd better go and get a dance from her, Dick."
"By and by," said Tryon, with his cryptic smile. "I'm waiting for something."
Even as he spoke, Gay saw across the room the face she had been watching for. A tall man had come into the doorway and stood casting a casual but comprehensive eye about him. He was not in evening dress, but wore a loose grey lounge suit of rather careless aspect, and his short, fairish, curly hair was ruffled as though he had been running his fingers through it. Accompanying him was a small black dog with a large stone in its mouth, which came into the ballroom and sat down. Gay gave one look at the pair of them, and the colour went out of her face. There was more than a glint of passion in the eyes she turned to Tyron, who was smiling no longer.