door leading into the ballroom. She had reached the centre of the floor when she was arrested by the sound of a laugh, and a light, flute-like voice breaking across the crash and clatter of the band.

“Well!” cried the voice. “Have you come at last? I am waiting for you. How long must I wait?”

Vanna wheeled round. Beneath the shade of a great palm tree, whose leaves swept the glass roof, stood Jean in her rose draperies, a wreath of roses crowning her dark head.

“I am waiting!” she said once more, and her eyes, passing by Vanna, rested on Robert Gloucester’s face. Vanna looking at him, saw his teeth clench, and his cheeks pale beneath their tan.