This kind of thing, this dance, was what she had wanted the pearls for in the first place. Of course she would wear them. They would help her to be impressive. And it just might happen that Doris would need something impressive to keep her from doing something foolish.

So she went hastily out of the room and down the hall, trying not to see Seagrave’s face every time she closed her eyes, trying to forget the heavenly look on Grandmother’s face when she had kissed her and clasped the pearls around her neck. Trying most of all to forget that every time she saw or thought of the pearls she felt ashamed of herself. She half wished that the precious things were back in Grandmother’s treasure chest waiting till a time when someone, not herself perhaps ever, could claim them legitimately.

Doris met her at the head of the stairs, cheery in a rose-colored frock of tulle, looking like a lovely rose, her eyes starry with joy.

“Oh, you darling!” she exclaimed as she saw Constance. “I was just coming up to see if you were ready. You look just wonderful—though I did think you’d wear something bright. But perhaps this severe type will be best after all, and it surely makes the pearls stand out. You look just like a million dollars, Con! Come on! I’m dying to watch his face when he sees you. And yours, too, when you see him. He’s wearing that dark, scholarly, brooding look now, and the girls are green with jealousy that you’ve drawn him. He really is the best-looking thing!”

They were on their way downstairs, and it was just then she saw him standing by the door in the lower hall looking up, watching for her coming.

She knew him at once even though she had never seen him before. Knew him even before she noticed Casper standing by his side. She recognized the dark, brooding look, the glitter of the handsome black eyes that yet had such a look of sharp worldly wisdom; knew him by the cocksure lift of his chin, the attitude of having come to confer honor, and to appraise. A wave of anger, of resentment swept her, even while she felt herself fascinated by his dark sophistication. Well, it was only for tonight, and she would show him!

So she lifted her patrician chin haughtily and went on downstairs, aware of his approval, his admiration. Yes—she would show him!

Chapter 6

Like a young queen, she bore herself through the introduction, giving Coulter a mere nod of recognition and wearing a cool aloofness toward the stranger.

But a strange thing happened. When she lifted her eyes to meet his own flattering gaze, there were two faces there before her, just as distinctly as if they had been there in reality. One, the dark-eyed escort boring deep into her personality with his too-intimate gaze, the other, Seagrave with his steady, earnest eyes and sorrowful gaze piercing her soul. Oh, this was outrageous! Seagrave had no right to look at her that way even in a memory. She must be on the verge of a nervous breakdown. How ridiculous!

She passed her hand over her eyes to dispel the vision, but there it was again, pale like a mist, but the eyes searched hers.

Wayne was throwing her white cloak around her shoulders now, with a light touch on her bare shoulder and a deep look into her eyes. This was a man of the world, indeed, and her intuition taught her he was not her kind. Ordinarily she would have drawn back and resented his forwardness, but those other eyes upon her confused her, angered her. How did Seagrave’s eyes dare look at her like that? She impulsively resolved to fling herself under this other influence and see if she could not drive Seagrave’s haunting eyes away.

Suddenly she was finding that this man, Thurlow Wayne, if she allowed herself to meet his gaze, to yield to his challenge, stirred her more deeply than any man had ever done before. He almost frightened her with the intensity of his gaze, while yet she resented it. It was as Doris had said. There was a strange fascination about the man, which yet in spite of her resolve to yield to him for the evening, repelled her innermost feelings.

Presently they were dancing together, and he held her intimately, closer than she usually allowed, and yet she seemed to have no power to withdraw herself. His handclasp was presuming, she knew, and while she did not exactly return it, she seemed to have given up the right to resent it.