One Sunday evening, at Lady Walford's,
Alexander did at last meet Hilda Burgoyne.
Mainhall had told him that she would probably
be there. He looked about for her rather
nervously, and finally found her at the farther
end of the large drawing-room, the centre of
a circle of men, young and old. She was
apparently telling them a story. They were
all laughing and bending toward her. When
she saw Alexander, she rose quickly and put
out her hand. The other men drew back a
little to let him approach.
"Mr. Alexander! I am delighted. Have you been
in London long?"
Bartley bowed, somewhat laboriously,
over her hand. "Long enough to have seen
you more than once. How fine it all is!"
She laughed as if she were pleased. "I'm glad
you think so. I like it. Won't you join us here?"
"Miss Burgoyne was just telling us about
a donkey-boy she had in Galway last summer,"
Sir Harry Towne explained as the circle
closed up again. Lord Westmere stroked
his long white mustache with his bloodless
hand and looked at Alexander blankly.
Hilda was a good story-teller. She was
sitting on the edge of her chair, as if she
had alighted there for a moment only.
Her primrose satin gown seemed like a soft sheath
for her slender, supple figure, and its delicate
color suited her white Irish skin and brown
hair. Whatever she wore, people felt the
charm of her active, girlish body with its
slender hips and quick, eager shoulders.
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