The spectators clamoured wildly for an encore, but she rose and came straight up to Vane.
"Unconscious in hospital for ten days," he answered grimly. "I went down in the 'Connaught.' . . . May I congratulate you on your delightful performance?"
For a second or two he thought she was going to faint, and instinctively he put out his arm to hold her. Then the colour came back to her face again, and she put her arm through his.
"I want something to eat. Take me, please. . . . No, no, my dear people, no more," as a throng of guests came round her. "I require food."
Her hand on his arm pushed Vane forward and obediently he led her across the ballroom.
"If there's any champagne get me a glass," she said, sitting down at a table. "And a sandwich. . . ."
Obediently Vane fetched what she desired; then he sat down opposite her.
"The fortnight is up," he said quietly. "I have come for my answer."
"Did you get my letters?" she asked slowly.
"Both. When I came to this morning. And I wasn't going to be called a fool for nothing, my lady--so I got up and came to look for you. What of the excellent Baxter? Is the date for your wedding fixed?"
She looked at him in silence for a moment, and then she began to laugh. "The ceremony in church takes place on his return from France in a week's time."
"Oh! no, it doesn't," said Vane grimly. "However, we will let that pass. May I ask if your entertainment to-night was indicative of the joy you feel at the prospect?"
She started to laugh again, and there was an ugly sound in it. A woman at the next table was looking at her curiously.
"Stop that, Joan," he said in a low, insistent voice. "For God's sake, pull yourself together. . . ."
She stopped at once, and only the ceaseless twisting of her handkerchief between her fingers betrayed her.
"I suppose it wouldn't do to go into a fit of high strikes," she said in a voice she strove vainly to keep steady. "The Mainwarings might think it was their champagne--or the early symptoms of 'flu--or unrequited love. . . . And they are so very respectable aren't they?--the Mainwarings, I mean?"
Vane looked at her gravely. "Don't speak for a bit. I'll get you another glass of champagne. . . ."
But Joan rose. "I don't want it," she said. "Take me somewhere where we can talk." She laid the tips of her fingers on his arm. "Talk, my friend, for the last time. . . ."
