He knew that Millicent Chyne was dressed in the latest fashion--no furbished-up gown from the hands of her maid, but a unique creation from Bond Street.
"Well," she asked in a low voice, as she handed him her programme, "are you pleased with it ?" "Eminently so." She glanced down at her own dress.

It was not the nervous glance of the debutante, but the practised flash of experienced eyes which see without appearing to look.
"I am glad," she murmured.
He handed her back the card with the orthodox smile and bow of gratitude, but there was something more in his eyes.
"Is that what you did it for ?" he inquired.
"Of course," with a glance half coquettish, half humble.
She took the card and allowed it to drop pendent from her fan without looking at it.

He had written nothing on it.

This was all a form.

The dances that were his had been inscribed on the engagement-card long before by smaller fingers than his.
She turned to take her attendant partner's arm with a little flaunt--a little movement of the hips to bring her dress, and possibly herself, more prominently beneath Jack Meredith's notice.