I was not to take any notice of a dark girl in a red dress, because she
wasn't the slightest bit nice when you really got to know her.
I was to drive straight to the hall, where Dorice would be looking out
for me.
"And now I can't stay any longer, and you must fly and catch the train,
and so 'good-bye,' and I'll keep some dances for you!"
"Half a minute," I protested. "Where do I----? What is the name of----?"
But Dorice, with that delightful suddenness which is one of her most
charming characteristics, had rung off, leaving my destination a
mystery.
However, there was no time to worry about details. I told a dreadful lie
to a man with whom I had an appointment, left the office and did
wonderful things in the way of changing my clothes, packing my bag, and
boarding a moving train.
At Naughton station I engaged a cab.
"Where to?" asked the driver, as he readied down for my bag.
It was the question I had been asking myself all the way in the train.
"That's just it," I said miserably, "I don't know."
He was a sympathetic-looking cabman--not one of the modern type, but the
aged director of a thin horse and a genuinely antique four-wheeler.
"It's rather an awkward situation," I explained doubtfully; "you see,
Dorice forgot--I mean I'm supposed to be going to a dance somewhere
round here. I was told to drive straight to the hall--I don't know
_what_ hall."
"That's all right, Sir," answered the sympathetic cabman encouragingly;
"you were told to drive straight to the 'all; that'll be Naughton 'All."
He proceeded to awaken the thin horse.
"There is a big do on there to-night, Sir. It's a fair way out, but I'll
'ave yer there in no time."
"My dear good man," I remonstrated nervously, "for heaven's sake don't
rush at things like that. Is this particular dance you wish to take me
to given by some people named Perry?"
"Perry? Lord! no! Sir John Oakham, lives at Naughton 'All. It's '_is_
party."
The sympathetic cabman was a little pained at my ignorance.
Dorice had not said who was actually giving the dance.
With vague misgivings I climbed into the cab.
"Go ahead," I said, with my heart in my boots; "drive away and let's get
it over."
It was a long drive, and more than once I was nearly killed through
hanging my body from the cab window in a vain attempt to catch a glimpse
of Dorice in one or other of the motors that passed us on the road.
At Naughton Hall I looked out for her expectantly.
There was not a soul in the room that I knew. In a fit of dreadful panic
I began to search desperately. Dorice was nowhere to be found, and the
hand started upon the first waltz.
To me it was like a nightmare.
One thing I remember was finding myself dancing with a Miss Giggleswick.
I don't pretend to explain how it happened. As far as I can make out,
some hospitably disposed person decided that he was expected to know me
and find me a partner.
Anyhow, I danced with a Miss Giggleswick, and also I talked to her.