"Do you mind?--I'll come back!" he said to his partner, and rushed off.

"Second supper dance!" "All right!"

He returned radiant, and in his recovered good humour proceeded to make
himself delightful even to Miss Chance, whom, five minutes before, he
had detested.

But when he had returned her to her mother, Peter wandered off alone. He
did not want to dance with anybody, to talk to anybody. He wanted just to
remember Helena's smile, her eager--"I've kept it for you, Peter, all the
evening!"--and to hug the thought of his coming joy. Oh, he hadn't a
dog's chance, he knew, but as long as she was not actually married to
somebody else, he was not going to give up hope.

In a shrubbery walk, where a rising moon was just beginning to chequer
the path with light and shade, he ran into Julian Horne, who was
strolling tranquilly up and down, book in hand.

"Hullo, what are you doing here?" said the invaded one.

"Getting cool. And you?"

Julian showed his book--_The Coming Revolution_, a Bolshevist pamphlet,
then enjoying great vogue in manufacturing England.

"What are you reading such rot for?" said Peter, wondering.

"It gives a piquancy to this kind of thing!" was Horne's smiling reply,