Left alone, Captain Utterbourne, humming gently, gazed across in a
quizzical way at the man their talk had just concerned. He watched him
with eyes a little narrowed; and underneath his lazy quiet there seemed
to lurk something keen and purposeful. It was as though some subtle
preparation were afoot.
Presently he got up, strolled over to where King was lounging watching
the dancers, and nodded with a smile flickering icily on his lips.
“King,” he began abruptly, yet in the dreamy, drawling tone which
characterized most of his speech, “did you ever sit down before a map
of the world and just let your mind go? H’m? It’s a gorgeous piece of
adventure!” There was a tiny thrill of fire, and he seemed to be pulling
the sentences up from some profound abyss. “A map of the world—h’m? What
it has cost in toil and ingenuity—the long sifting of facts—the grim
wrestle with legend—h’m?”
What could it mean? What was this new mystery of approach? There were
forces busy here.
“Think,” embroidered the Captain,“—think of the slough of the Middle
Ages, when what bothered the map-makers most was the pressure of the
Church, holding up before them those obscuring metaphysical allusions
to ‘the four corners of the earth’—when the best they could do was to
conceive of a rectangular world—h’m?—surrounded by—by the unknown! Just
think of it, King!”
A waltz swayed the dancers all about them. Yes, there were forces busy
here.
Elsa dashed up. “Oh, here you are!” She laughed easily and not very
mirthfully. “Yes, I know—I’m coming,” she soothingly interpolated over
her shoulder to a youth with mussed hair who had wildly pursued her
waving a program with its flying cord and pencil. “I wanted Mr. King to
meet Miss Meade.” She grasped his arm and informally hurried him off,
with a slight nod toward her father, which somehow fulfilled every demand
of etiquette.
Not far away sat Stella, looking quite as delightful for the occasion as
she felt over her thrilling share in it. She was wearing a dress Elsa
had insisted upon lending her—“since you seem to be so tired of your own
clothes”; it was her way of being tactful. There had been some demur,
but Elsa, as usual, had her own way—said, indeed, she would positively
have the invitation withdrawn unless Stella agreed to take the dress too.
There was a good deal of whimsy about Elsa.
Mr. King saluted Stella with one of his most fascinating smiles. He
bowed, too, in a courtly way, which made her catch her breath a little.
“I’m delighted,” he murmured.
And Stella, her eyes strangely full of light, paused just short of
exclaiming: “There’s something about you—something I seem to remember....”
Elsa prepared to dance off with her impatient partner, but turned to
her father, who had strolled up, and warned him with dry playfulness:
“Please keep an eye on them, and don’t let them get so interested in
each other that they forget about supper, because Stella has that dance
taken—haven’t you, Stella?” She had been unflagging and a little brazen
in her friend’s behalf.
“I believe so,” fluttered Stella, excitedly glancing at her card, though
in truth, her face all alight with momentarily realized dreams, she
wasn’t much concerned over the possibility of any mere individual’s being
able to subtract her attention from the glittering whole. Nevertheless,
that is exactly what did happen. She fell right into the trap Elsa had
mockingly cautioned against; and this is how it all came about.