Only--men were men. And safe and sane friendships between men of his
own caste, and girls like Athalie Greensleeve, were rare.
Clive chafed and became restive and morose. In vain he repeated to
himself that what Athalie was doing was perfectly natural. But it
didn't make the idea of her going out with other men any more
attractive to him.
His clever mother, possibly aware of what ferment was working in her
son, watched him out of the tail of her ornamental eyes, but wisely
let him alone to fidget his own way out of it. She had heard that the
Greensleeve girl was raising hob with Cecil Reeve and Francis
Hargrave. They were other people's sons, however. And it might have
worked itself out of Clive--this restless ferment which soured his
mind and gave him an acid satisfaction in being anything but cordial
in his own family circle.
But there was a girl--a debutante, very desirable for Clive his mother
thought--one Winifred Stuart--and very delightful to look upon.
And Clive had seen just enough of her to like her exceedingly; and, at
dances, had even wandered about to look for her, and had evinced
boredom and dissatisfaction when she had not been present.
Which inspired his mother to give a theatre party for little Miss
Stuart and two dozen other youngsters, and a supper at the Regina
afterward.
It was an excellent idea; and it went as wrong as such excellent ideas
so often go. For as Clive in company with the others sauntered into
the splendid reception room of the Regina, he saw Athalie come in with
a man whom he had never before seen.
The shock of recognition--for it was a shock--was mutual. Athalie's
dark eyes widened and a little colour left her cheeks: and Clive
reddened painfully.
It was, perhaps, scarcely the thing to do, but as she advanced he
stepped forward, and their hands met.
"I am so very glad to see you again," he said.
"I too, Clive. Are you well?"
"And you?"
"Quite," she hesitated; there was a moment's pause while the two men
looked coolly at each other.
"May I present Mr. Bailey, Captain Dane?" Further she did not account
for Captain Dane, who presently took her off somewhere leaving Clive
to return to his smiling but enraged mother.
Never had he found any supper party so noisy, so mirthless, and so
endless. Half the time he didn't know what he was saying to Winifred
Stuart or to anybody else. Nor could he seem to see anybody very
distinctly, for the mental phantoms of Athalie and Captain Dane
floated persistently before him, confusing everything at moments
except the smiling and deadly glance of his mother.