‘But don’t we take off our masks first?’

‘Yes, of course, I’d forgotten that.’

The figure described by Mrs. Manning as being the most amusing of all would have been much more amusing, Marion thought, if they had played it without masks. If the dancers did not recognize each other, it lost a great deal of its point. Its success depended on surprise. A space had been cleared in the middle of the room, an oblong space like a badminton court, divided into two, not by a net but by a large white sheet supported at either end by the leaders of the cotillon, and held nearly at arm’s length above their heads. On one side were grouped the men, on the other the women, theoretically invisible to each other; but Marion noticed that they moved about and took furtive peeps at each other round the sides, a form of cheating which, in the interludes, the leaders tried to forestall by rushing the sheet across to intercept the view. But most of the time these stolen glimpses went on unchecked, to the accompaniment of a good deal of laughter; for while the figure was in progress the leaders were perforce stationary. One by one the men came up from behind and clasped the top edge of the sheet, so that their gloved fingers, and nothing else, were visible the farther side. With becoming hesitation a woman would advance and take these anonymous fingers in her own; then the sheet was suddenly lowered and the dancers stood face to face, or rather mask to mask. Sometimes there were cries of recognition, sometimes silence, the masks were as impenetrable as the sheet had been.

It was Marion’s turn. As she walked forward she saw that the gloved hands were not resting on the sheet like the rest; they were clutching it so tightly that the linen was caught up in creases between the fingers and crumpled round their tips. For a moment they did not respond to her touch, then they gripped with surprising force. Down went the leader’s arms, down went the corners of the sheet. But Marion’s unknown partner did not take his cue. He forgot to release the sheet, and she remained with her arms held immovably aloft, the sheet falling in folds about her and almost covering her head. ‘An unrehearsed effect, jolly good, I call it,’ said somebody. At last, in response to playful tugs and twitches from the leaders, the man let the sheet go and discovered himself to the humiliated Marion. It was her partner of the previous figure, that uncommunicative man. His hands, that still held hers, felt cold through their kid covering.

‘Oh,’ she cried, ‘I can’t understand it—I feel so cold. Let’s dance.’

They danced for a little and then sat down. Marion felt chillier than ever, and she heard her neighbours on either side complaining of the temperature. Suddenly she made a decision and rose to her feet.

‘Do take me somewhere where it’s warmer,’ she said. ‘I’m perished here.’

The man led the way out of the ballroom, through the ante-room at the end where one or two couples were sitting, across the corridor into a little room where a good fire was burning, throwing every now and then a ruddy gleam on china ornaments and silver photograph frames. It was Mrs. Manning’s sitting-room.

‘We don’t need a light, do we?’ said her companion. ‘Let’s sit as we are.’

It was the first time he had volunteered a remark. His voice was somehow familiar to Marion, yet she couldn’t place it; it had an alien quality that made it unrecognizable, like one’s own dress worn by someone else.

‘With pleasure,’ she said. ‘But we mustn’t stay long, must we? It’s only a few minutes to twelve. Can we hear the music from here?’

They sat in silence, listening. There was no sound.

‘Don’t think me fussy,’ Marion said. ‘I’m enjoying this tremendously, but Jenny would be disappointed if we missed the last figure. If you don’t mind opening the door, we should hear the music begin.’

As he did not offer to move, she got up to open it herself, but before she reached the door she heard her name called.

‘Marion!’

‘Who said that, you?’ she cried, suddenly very nervous.

‘Don’t you know who I am?’

‘Harry!’

Her voice shook and she sank back into her chair, trembling violently.

‘How was it I didn’t recognize you? I’m—I’m so glad to see you.’

‘You haven’t seen me yet,’ said he. It was like him to say that, playfully grim. His words reassured her, but his tone left her still in doubt. She did not know how to start the conversation, what effect to aim at, what note to strike; so much depended on divining his mood and playing up to it. If she could have seen his face, if she could even have caught a glimpse of the poise of his head, it would have given her a cue; in the dark like this, hardly certain of his whereabouts in the room, she felt hopelessly at a disadvantage.

‘It was nice of you to come and see me—if you did come to see me,’ she ventured at last.

‘I heard you were to be here.’ Again that non-committal tone! Trying to probe him she said:

‘Would you have come otherwise? It’s rather a childish entertainment, isn’t it?’

‘I should have come,’ he answered, ‘but it would have been in—in a different spirit.’

She could make nothing of this.

‘I didn’t know the Mannings were friends of yours,’ she told him. ‘He’s rather a dear, married to a dull woman, if I must be really truthful.’

‘I don’t know them,’ said he.

‘Then you gate-crashed?’

‘I suppose I did.’

‘I take that as a compliment,’ said Marion after a pause. ‘But—forgive me—I must be very slow—I don’t understand. You said you were coming in any case.’

‘Some friends of mine called Chillingworth offered to bring me.’

‘How lucky I was! So you came with them?’

‘Not with them, after them.’

‘How odd. Wasn’t there room for you in their car? How did you get here so quickly?’

‘The dead travel fast.’

His irony baffled her. But her thoughts flew to his letter, in which he accused her of having killed something in him; he must be referring to that.

‘Darling Hal,’ she said. ‘Believe me, I’m sorry to have hurt you. What can I do to—to——’

There was a sound of voices calling, and her attention thus awakened caught the strains of music, muffled and remote.

‘They want us for the next figure. We must go,’ she cried, thankful that the difficult interview was nearly over. She was colder than ever, and could hardly keep her teeth from chattering audibly.

‘What is the next figure?’ he asked, without appearing to move.

‘Oh, you know—we’ve had it before—we give each other favours, then we unmask ourselves. Hal, we really ought to go! Listen! Isn’t that midnight beginning to strike?’

Unable to control her agitation, aggravated by the strain of the encounter, the deadly sensation of cold within her, and a presentiment of disaster for which she could not account, she rushed towards the door and her outstretched left hand, finding the switch, flooded the room with light. Mechanically she turned her head to the room; it was empty. Bewildered she looked back over her left shoulder, and there, within a foot of her, stood Harry Chichester, his arms stretched across the door.

‘Harry,’ she cried, ‘don’t be silly! Come out or let me out!’

‘You must give me a favour first,’ he said sombrely.

‘Of course I will, but I haven’t got one here.’

‘I thought you always had favours to give away.’

‘Harry, what do you mean?’

‘You came unprovided?’

She was silent.

‘I did not. I have something here to give you—a small token. Only I must have a quid pro quo.’

He’s mad, thought Marion. I must humour him as far as I can.

‘Very well,’ she said, looking around the room. Jenny would forgive her—it was an emergency. ‘May I give you this silver pencil?’

He shook his head.

‘Or this little vase?’

Still he refused.