CHAPTER XXII.
It has come at last—the night of my first ball; and surely no girlish debutante in her first season ever felt a greater thrill of delight at this mere fact than I, spite of my being "wooed an' married an' a'."
Behold me in my room arrayed for conquest.
Having once made up my mind to the black velvet—though mother and Harriet and Bebe all declare me a great deal too young and too slight for it—I persist in my determination, and the dress is ordered and sent down.
It is a most delectable old dress, rejoicing greatly in "old point;" and when I am in it, and Martha has fastened the diamonds in my hair and ears and round my throat and wrists and waist, I contemplate myself in a lengthy mirror with feelings akin to admiration.
Having dismissed my maid, who professes herself lost in pleased astonishment at the radiant spectacle I present, I go softly to 'Duke's dressing-room door, and, hearing him whistling within, open it quietly.
Standing motionless, framed in by the portals, I murmur, "Marmaduke."
He turns, and for a moment regards me silently.
"My darling!" he says then, in a tone of glad surprise, and comes quickly up to me.
"Am I—looking—well?" I ask tremulously.
"'Well!' you are looking lovely," returns he, with enthusiasm, and, taking my hand carefully, as though fearful of doing some injury to my toilet, leads me before his glass. "See there," he says, "what a perfect little picture you make."
I stare myself out of countenance, and am thoroughly satisfied with what I see.
"I had no idea I could ever appear so—presentable," I say, half shy, wholly delighted.
"You shall be painted in that dress," declares 'Duke warmly, "and put all those antiquated dames in the picture-gallery in the shade."
"Are not the diamonds beautiful?" exclaim I. "And my gloves such a good fit! And"—anxiously—"Marmaduke, are you sure you like my hair?"
"I like everything about you. I never saw you look half so well. I feel horribly proud of you."
"Bestow a little of your admiration on my bouquet, if you please. Sir Mark had it sent down to me, all the way from London, and his man brought it to me half an hour ago. Was it not thoughtful?"
"Very. I suppose"—with a comical sigh—"all the men will be making love to you to-night. That's the worst of having a pretty wife; she is only half one's own." Then, abruptly, changing the subject, "What dear little round babyish arms!" stooping to press his lips to each in turn. "They might belong to a mere child."
"And you really think I am looking downright pretty?" I ask desperately, yet withal very wistfully, reading his face for a reply. I do so ardently long to be classed among the well favored people!
"I should rather think I do. Why, Phyllis! of what earthly use is a mirror to you?"
"As—as pretty as Dora?" with hesitation. I am gradually nearing the highest point.
"Pshaw! Dora, indeed! She could not hold a candle to you—to be emphatic."
"Well, here's a kiss for you," say I, standing on tiptoe to deliver it in the exuberance of my satisfaction, feeling for once in my life, utterly and disgracefully conceited.
Marmaduke, however, appearing at this moment dangerously desirous of taking me into his arms and giving me a hearty embrace, to the detriment of my finery, I beat a hasty retreat, and go off to exhibit myself to mamma and Dora.
His Grace the Duke of Chillington and Lady Alicia Slate-Gore have arrived. The rooms begin to look gay and very full. His Grace a—well-preserved gentleman, of unknown age—adjusts his glass more carefully in his right eye, and coining over, requests from me the pleasure of the first quadrille. I accept, and begin to regard myself as an important personage. I glance at myself in one of the long mirrors that line the walls, and seeing therein a slender figure, robed in velvet and literally flashing with diamonds, I appear good in my eyes, and feel a self-satisfied smirk stealing over my countenance.
I am dimly conscious that darling mother is sitting on a sofa somewhat distant from me, looking as pretty as possible and absolutely flushed with pride and pleasure as she beholds me and my illustrious partner.
Dora, a little further down, is positively delicious in white silk and pink coral—the coral being mine. Her still entertaining for me the old grudge does not prevent her borrowing of me freely such things as she deems may suit her child-like beauty; while I, unable to divest myself of the idea that in some way I have wronged her, and that but for me all these things she borrows would by right be hers, lend to her lavishly from all that I possess.
To-night, however, in spite of the bewitching simplicity of her appearance, I feel no jealous pangs. "For this night only," I will consider myself as charming as Dora.
"Rather think it will be a severe season. You hunt?" asks his Grace, in rather high, jerky tones, having come to the conclusion, I presume, that he ought to say something.
I answer him to the intent that I do not; that in fact—lowering to my pride as it may be to confess it—I would rather be afraid to do so.
He regards me with much interest and approval.
"Quite right; quite right," he says. "Ladies are—ha—charming you know, of course, and that—but in a hunting-field—a mistake."
I laugh, and suggest amiably he is not over-gallant.
"No—no? really! Have I said anything rude? Can't apply to you, you know, Mrs. Carrington, as you say you have no ambition to be in at the death. Women, as a rule, never are, you know; they are generally in a drain by that time; and if a man sees them, unless he wants to be considered a brute for life, he must stop and pull 'em out It takes nice feelings to do that gracefully, and with a due regard to proper language, in the middle of a good run. Charming girl, Miss Beatoun."
"Very."
"Pretty girl, too, in white silk and the coral."
"You mean my sister?"
"Indeed indeed? You must excuse the openness of my observations. I would never have guessed at the relationship. Can't discern the slightest family resemblance."
He says this so emphatically that I understand him to mean he considers me far inferior to Dora. I begin to think his Grace an obtuse and undesirable person, sadly wanting in discrimination. No doubt he is thinking my plainness only to be equalled by my dullness. I wish impatiently the quadrille would begin and get itself over, that I may be rid of him, more especially as I am longing with a keenness that belongs alone to youth, for a waltz or a galop, or anything fast and inspiriting.
At last the band strikes up and we take our places. Marmaduke (who is dancing with Lady Alicia Slate-Gore) and I are the only untitled people in the set. Nevertheless, as I look at my husband I think to myself, with a certain satisfaction, that not one among us has an appearance so handsome or so distinguished as his.
The quadrille being at an end, Sir Mark Gore instantly claims me for the coming waltz, and, as I place my hand very willingly upon his arm, whispers:—-
"You are like an old picture. I cannot take my eyes off you. Who told you to dress yourself like that?"
"Myself. Is it not nice?" I ask, eagerly, casting another surreptitious glance at my youthful form as we move near a glass. "Don't you think it becoming?"
"If I told you all I thought," he exclaims, eagerly then, checking himself with an effort, and a rather forced laugh, continues—"you might perhaps read me a lecture."
"Not I: I am not in the mood for lectures. I feel half intoxicated with excitement and pleasure, as though nothing could have power to annoy or vex me to-night. The very music thrills me."
"You remind me of Browning's little lady,—-
'She was the smallest lady alive: Made in a piece of nature's madness. Too small almost for the life and gladness That over-filled her.'
You remember her?"
"Am I the 'smallest lady alive?' Why, see, I am quite up to your shoulder. You insult me, sir. Come, dance, dance, or I will never forgive you."
He passes his arm round my waist, and in another moment we are waltzing.
Did I ever dance before, I wonder? Or is this some new sensation? I hardly touch the ground; my heart—my very pulses—beat in unison with the perfect music.
I stop, breathless, flushed, radiant, and glance up at Sir Mark, with parted, smiling lips, as though eager to hear him say how delightful he too has found it.
He is a little pale, I fancy, and answers my smile rather slowly.
"Yes, it has been more than pleasant," he says, divining and answering my thought.
He is not enthusiastic; and I am dissatisfied.
"You don't look" I say with inquisitive reproach, "as though you enjoyed it one bit."
A curious smile passes over Sir Mark's face.
"Don't I?" he replies, quietly.
"No. Decidedly the reverse even. Of course"—with a considerable amount of pique—"You could have found plenty of better dancers among the people here."
"Perhaps I could; although you must permit me to doubt it. I only know I would rather have you for a partner than any one else in the room."
I am not proof against flattery, A smile is born and grows steadily round my lips, until at length my whole face beams.
"Well, you might try to appear more contented," I say, with a last feeble attempt at remonstrance. "When I get what I want I always look pleased."
"I know you do. But I am a thankless being; the more I get the more I want. When a man is starving, to give him a little only adds to the pangs he suffers—-"
The last bars of the waltz died out with a lingering wailing sigh. A little hush falls. . . . Sir George Ashurst, coming up, offers me his arm.
"You will let me put my name down for another before you go?" asks Sir Mark, hurriedly, following us a few steps.
I hand him my card. "Keep it for me," I say, "until after the dance. You can then return it."
"May I have the next after this?" very eagerly.
I glance at him over my shoulder. "Yes—if I am disengaged, and you care for it," I make answer, forgetful of my character as hostess, of the world's tongue, of everything but the sweet gayety of the present hour.
----
The night wears on. Already it is one hour past midnight. Sir Mark is again my partner.
Up to this the evening has fully answered my fondest expectations. I have danced incessantly. I have been utterly, thoughtlessly happy. Now a slight contraction about the soles of my feet warns me I begin to experience fatigue.
Sir Mark leads me towards a conservatory, dimly lit and exquisitely arranged, at the door of which I stand to bestow a backward glance upon the ball-room.
At a considerable distance I can discern Bebe standing beside Lord Chandos. It is without doubt an interval in their dance, but they are not talking. Miss Beautoun's head is slightly inclined from her companion, and it is evident to me she has mounted an exceedingly high horse. Nevertheless, to see her with him at all gratifies me; as it is surely a step in the right direction.
Dora is waltzing with a "Heavy," and I can see Sir George glowering upon them from a remote corner. Dora sees him also, and instantly smiles tenderly into her dragoon's light-blue eyes. This too looks promising. My spirits go up another degree, and I indulge in a low pleased laugh.
"Still revelling in bliss, Mrs. Carrington?" Sir Mark's voice recalls me. "No flaw as yet?"
"Not one. Of course not. What a ridiculous question! I told you nothing should interfere with my enjoyment this evening. Yet, stay"—with a demure and dejected shake of the head: "every now and then I am troubled with a faint regret."
"And it—is—-"
"That all this must some time come to an end. There, is not that a haunting thought?"
I laugh, so does he.
"I shall have plenty of it in the spring," I continue, presently. "'Duke says I shall go to London then."
"And so lose the keen sense of pleasure you now possess. What a mistake! Take my advice, and don't go through a London season."
"What stupid advice. Indeed I shall, and enjoy it too, I am only longing for the time to come round. I shall be dreaming of it from now until then."
"You are bent on rushing wildly to your fate," says he, smiling. "Well, do so, and rue it later on. When you come to look on dancing, not as a good thing in itself, but merely as a means to an end, remember I warned you."
"I will remember nothing," I say, saucily, "except that I am at this moment without a care in the world. Come, let us go in."
Sir Mark hesitates.
"Shall we finish the dance first?"
"No," I am looking longingly into the cool green light of the conservatory beyond me. "See how delicious it is in there. Let us find a seat."
Still he hesitates, as though unwilling to move in the desired direction.
"It seems a pity to lose this music," he says. "Afterwards we could rest."
I turn my eyes mischievously upon him.
"Who? is keen about dancing now?" I ask, gayly. "Not I. For my part, I pine for a sofa. As you will have it, I confess I am just a little wee bit tired."
We walk on through the outer nest of flowers into the smaller one beyond, which is if anything dimlier lit, calmer, more subtly perfumed. The nameless fragrance is everywhere, the splash, splash of a small fountain falls soothingly on the ear; the music, though distinct, is strangely, dreamily distant.
Some tall shrubs are dispersed here and there; behind them cozy seats are hidden; shadows of a darker shade envelope them.
As with purposeless steps I pass by a rather larger one of these I suddenly find myself face to face with Lady Blanche Going and—Marmaduke.
Now there is no earthly reason why they should not be here alone together; hundreds of other couples, tired and warm from dancing, have probably done the same; yet, as my eyes fall upon them, a strange feeling that is partly anger, partly pain, troubles me. All my gay wild spirits sink and disappear. I know my face has lost its vivacity and expresses only surprise and chagrin.
As my glance fastens more directly upon Duke, I see he too is looking unlike himself. There is a dark, almost fierce expression in his eyes; his lips are compressed. A slight movement of the thin nostrils as he draws his breath tells me he is evidently suppressing some strong emotion.
Her ladyship, exquisitely lovely in deep cream-colored silk, with something scarlet in her dark hair, is nestling among the crimson cushions of the lounge, and does not deign to raise herself as we approach. Her eyes are a degree larger, more languid than usual; her complexion, always good, is perfect in this soft light. Her fan is in my husband's hands.
It is impossible for me, without being guilty of positive rudeness, to turn and leave them without a word. I stand, therefore, silent, a pale, slight child, next to her, in all her supercilious beauty—with little of the woman about me except my trailing velvet and golden ring, and glittering, gleaming jewels.
"Are you having a good time, Mrs. Carrington?" asks Lady Blanche, sweetly.
"Very, thank you," with extreme coldness. "I had no idea I could enjoy anything so much."
"You look happy," with increased amiability and a soft, indulgent smile, such as one would use toward an excitable child. "I suppose you still find pleasure in dancing?"
"Yes. I believe I have a good many years yet to run before I must, for decency's sake, declare myself tired of it."
"Until you are quite an old married woman like me? Yes," with much complacency. "You are fortunate in your partner. All the world acknowledges Sir Mark to be above praise—in the dancing line. Even I"—with a sudden and to me utterly inexplicable glance at the gentleman in question—"can remember how desirable he used to be."
Dead silence, and a slight bow on the part of Sir Mark.
"Indeed?" say I, turning a smile of exaggerated friendliness upon him. "Then consider how doubly good it is of him to waste so much of his time upon a mere novice like me."
I hardly know what prompts this speech. Perhaps a faint remembrance of how at certain times, when conversing with Mark Gore, I have looked across the rooms or gardens, or wherever we might chance to be, and seen a glance that was almost hatred fall on me from her ladyship's eyes. Now, however, my spiteful little speech has no greater effect than to cause Marmaduke's fingers to close with vicious force around the painted satin toy he holds.
Why does he not speak? Why will he not even suffer his gaze to meet mine? I feel angry and reckless. He is sitting a little forward, with his head slightly bent and a determined expression upon his face. Is he anxious for my departure? Have I disturbed his interesting tete-a-tete!
I will show him how little power he has over me for either joy or sorrow.
I turn away, and with a backward careless nod at Lady Blanche, say lightly,—-
"Take care you don't suffer for sitting there. There are so many draughts in a conservatory, We even consider the open air safer."
And with that, though it was by no means my original intention, I go out through the glass door into the silent starlight night, and even manage to laugh gayly before we are beyond earshot.
As we touch the gravel, however, I face Sir Mark, and, foolishly unmindful of how my words may impress him, cry fiercely, "Did you bring me there on purpose?"
"Where?" he asks, with such wide astonishment as instantly brings me to my senses. I feel overpowered with shame, and try to turn it off, clumsily enough.
"Into Lady Blanche's presence," I say, fretfully. "You know that woman always puts me out."
"Was it not yourself who insisted on going there?" Sir Mark reminds me, gravely.
"True," I reply, and then I laugh a little, and, taking higher ground, continue, "You are horrified at my ill temper, are you not? And indeed I have behaved disgracefully. After all, I don't know why I should feel bitterly towards her; it is a mere unfounded prejudice on my part. You think me wretchedly pettish?"
"I do not, indeed," very quietly. "Of course I can fully understand how utterly impossible it would be for you and Blanche Going to have a single idea in common."
"She is so clever you mean," with a small frown.
"She is such an intrigante, I mean," replies my companion, quite coolly.
"Let us go in, it is cold," I say, with a quick shiver. So we go round by the hall door, and soon again find ourselves in the ball-room. As we enter I determinately put from me all thought of 'Duke's dark, passionate face. I will be happy. I will wrench from the flying hours all they have worth taking. Why should I care, who never really loved, whether or not he finds contentment in another woman's society.
----
I am tired, and somewhat dispirited. The rooms are growing thinner. A voice at my side makes me start and turn.
"If not engaged, will you give me this?" asks 'Duke, ceremoniously.
"Certainly, if you wish it. But are you so badly off for a partner? To dance with one's wife must be—to say the least of it—insipid."
He makes no reply, but places his arm around my waist in silence. It is a waltz.
"Do you know this is the first time I ever danced with you?" I say, struck myself by the oddness of the idea.
"I know." And in another moment we are keeping time to one of the dreamiest airs of Strauss. No, not even Mark Gore is a better dancer than Marmaduke.
When we have taken just one bare turn round the room, 'Duke stops short and leads me on to a balcony that by some chance is vacant.
"There! I won't inflict myself upon you any longer," he says, quietly. "You dance very well. After all practice has nothing to do with it. Will you sit down? Or shall I find you a partner for the remainder of this waltz?"
"Are you in such a hurry to be gone?"
"No; certainly not," seating himself beside me.
Silence.
"I really wish, Marmaduke," I burst out, petulantly, "you would say what has aggrieved you, instead of sitting there frowning and glowering at one and making people feel uncomfortable If you want to scold me, do so. I dare say I shall survive it."
This piece of impertinence rouses no wrath in the person addressed, and draws no reply.
"Well, what is it?" I go on. "I have been quite happy all the evening—until now. Every one else has been civil to me. If you must be disagreeable, be so at once. What have I done?"
"I have accused you of nothing, Phyllis."
"No"—in an agitated tone—"I wish you would. I might then know why you are looking so cross."
"Of course I am quite aware you can be supremely happy without me. There was no necessity for you to hint at it so broadly."
"And you cannot without me, I suppose? You appeared very comfortable in the conservatory some time ago."
"Did I" with a quick return of the angry expression he had then worn. "My face belied me then. I could hardly feel comfortable when I saw you laying yourself open to the ill-natured comments of the entire room."
"What do you mean Marmaduke?"
"You know what I mean. Is it the correct thing to dance the whole evening with one man!"
"What man?"
"Gore, of course. Every one remarked it. I wish you would try to be a little more dignified, and remember how censorious is the world in which we are living."
"Do you want me to understand that you think I was flirting with Sir Mark Gore?" I am literally trembling with indignation.
"No, I merely wish you to see how foolishly you have acted."
"Was it with such base insinuations against your wife Lady Blanche amused you to night? Do you think it was becoming conduct on your part to listen to such lies being uttered without rebuke?"
I have risen, and, with folded hands and white lips, am looking down upon him.
"Phyllis! How can you suppose that I would listen calmly to any one who could speak evil of you?"
"I can readily suppose anything after what you have said. Is it not worse of you to think evil of me? Flirting! You beyond all people are in a position to acquit me of that. I had plenty of opportunities: did I ever flirt with you?"
"You did not, indeed. I tell you I don't for a moment suspect you of such a thing; only—-"
Here, looking up, we both became aware of Sir Mark's approach. He is still some distance from us.
"Are you engaged to him for this, Phyllis?" asks my husband, in a low hurried tone.
"Yes."
"Don't dance it, then," imploringly. "Say you will not, if only to oblige me."
"Why? What excuse can I offer? You ask me to be rude to him, and yet give no reason why I should be so."
"You intend dancing it with him then?" sternly.
"Certainly," in a freezing tone.
"Very good. Do so." And, turning on his heel, he walks quietly and slowly away.
"I fear I have displaced a better man," says Sir Mark, lightly, as he joins me. "Will you forgive me? I could not resist reminding you of your promise of this."
"I fear I must undo that promise," I return, gayly. "I am really fatigued. To dance with me now would be no advantage to any one."
"Am I to thank Carrington for this disappointment? Was he fearful of your being over-tired?" He is courteous as ever, yet it seems to me the very faintest suspicion of a sneer comes to his lips—so faint that a moment later I doubt it has ever been.
"No," I return, calmly. "You give him credit for too much thoughtfulness. So far from dreaming of fatigue, he even asked me just now to dance with him—was not that self-denying of him?—but I only took one small turn. You forget I am not yet in proper training. I have had very little practice in my time."
"Let me get you an ice. No? Some champagne, then? Iced water?"
"Nothing thank you."
"At least let me stay and talk to you."
"I shall be glad of that. You never met any one with such a rooted objection to her own society as I have," I answer, laughing.
Then the strain loosens; the smile dies off my lips. How ardently do I long to be alone! Why does not this man get up and leave me? At all events, Marmaduke will see I have repented of my ill temper, and am not dancing.
As I sit moodily staring through the window at the gay scene within, it so happens the Duke of Chillington, with one or two other men, passes slowly by.
"Our cousin of Chillington," says Sir Mark, with an amused air—he is a second cousin of his Grace—"has expressed himself enraptured with his hostess."
I raise my eyebrows and betray some slight surprise.
"I think you must mistake. When speaking to him, in the earlier part of the evening, he gave me to understand—politely, it is true, but none the less plainly—that he considered me a very mediocre sort of person."
"In that case I fear we must believe his lordship to be an arch old hypocrite, as he told me he thought your manner and expression above all praise."
"Well, I think him a very stupid old gentleman," I reply, ungraciously.
Sir Mark turns his eyes upon me thoughtfully.
"Have you found that 'little rift' after all, Mrs. Carrington?" asks he gravely.
"Yes—I suppose so," with impatience. Really the man grows very tiresome. "I must have been mad to hope we wretched mortals could have five whole hours of unbroken happiness."
"True:
'Every white must have its blacke,
And every sweete its soure.'"
"Another quotation?" superciliously. I am not in an amiable mood. "You seem to have them ready for all emergencies. How closely you must attend to your poetical studies! How fond of them you must be!"
"I am. Does that surprise you? Do you find a difficulty in associating me with polite verse?"
He has his elbow on his knee; his fingers caress his heavy black mustache. He is regarding me with the profoundest interest.
"I really never thought about it," I return, wearily, with a rather petulant movement of the head.
Oh that this hateful ball was at an end!
----
The last guest has departed. We of the household have gone up to our rooms. Now that it is all over, I feel strangely inclined to sit down and have a good cry. In the solitude of my own room Marmaduke's words and glances come back to me, making me miserable, now that excitement is no longer at hand to help me to forget. One by one they return with cruel clearness.
If he would only come up from that horrid smoking-room and be good-natured once more and make friends with me! I think I could forgive and forget everything, and look upon the remembrance of this ball with much delight and satisfaction.
My slight jealously of Blanche Going has disappeared, and weighs not at all in the scale with my other miseries. Indeed, I have almost forgotten the incident in which she figured.
Hark! a distant door bangs. Now surely he is coming. Will He enter my room first, I wonder, to speak to me as he always does? Or will he at once shut himself morosely into his dressing-room?
Steps upon the stairs, steps along the corridor. A laugh.
"Good-night" from Sir Mark Gore. "Good-night," heartily returned by Marmaduke. Bah! how needlessly I have worried myself! He is not angry at all. If he can jest and talk so easily with the cause of all our dispute, he can certainly entertain no bitter thoughts towards me.
I hear Marmaduke cross the inside room and approach mine. I feel confident he is coming to "make it up" with me. I turn my chair so as to face the door and be ready to meet him half-way in the reconciliation; though—lest he may think me too eager—I find it my duty to let a gently aggrieved shadow fall upon my face.
The door opens, and he comes in, walks deliberately to my dressing-table, lights a candle, and then, without so much as a glance at the fireplace, where I sit, prepares to return to his room.
"Marmaduke!" I cry, in dismay, springing to my feet.
He stops and regards me coldly.
"Do you want me? Can I do anything for you?"
"'Duke! how can you be so unkind, so unforgiving, so—so cruel to me?" I exclaim, going a little nearer, a suspicion of tears in my voice, large visible drops in my eyes. "Are you going away without saying one word to me?"
"What have I to say? You have left me nothing. When last we spoke I asked you to do a very simple thing to please me, and you refused."
"I know. But afterwards I was sorry. I—you must have seen—I did not mean to vex you."
"I saw nothing. The knowledge of what I was to see in defiance of my entreaty was not reassuring, I left the ball-room then and did not return to it again. I was glad there was no necessity why I should do so: they were all going."
"Then you do not know—I did not dance with Sir Mark—after all?" I ask, eagerly, laying the bare tips of my fingers upon his arm.
"No!" laying down the candle, while his color grows a shade deeper. "Did you refuse him, then?"
"Yes; I said I was too tired; I said—-"
"Oh! Phyllis! darling—darling!" cries 'Duke, catching me in his arms before I can finish my confession, and straining me to his heart.
"So you see you need not have been so very cold to me," I whisper from this safe retreat, feeling much relieved. It is positive torture to me to quarrel with any one.
"Forgive me, my own. It is our first disagreement; it shall be our last. What a miserable hour and a half I might have spared myself had I but known!"
"But 'Duke, you said I behaved foolishly all the evening."
"Never mind what I said."
"But I must know who put it into your head. Was it Blanche Going?"
"She said something about it, certainly. It was a mere careless remark she made, but it struck me. I don't believe she knew she said it."
"I guessed rightly, then. That woman hates me. She was trying to make mischief between you and I."
"Oh, no, darling. Do not misjudge her. I am convinced she had no hidden meaning in what she said. It was only a passing word, and probably I took it up wrongly. She has no thought for you but kindness."
"Then I don't like her kindness, and I will not have you listening to her remarks about me. She never says anything without a meaning. You do not think I was flirting, 'Duke?"
"My darling, of course not. No; but I love you so dearly it is positive agony to imagine any one might, by chance, misinterpret your conduct."
"And you will never be cross to me again?"
"Never."
"And you are deeply grieved you behaved so infamously to me?"
"I am indeed."
"And I looked lovely all the evening?"
"I never beheld anything half so lovely."
"And I dance very nicely?"
"Beautifully. Quito like a fairy." Whereupon we both laugh merrily, and anger and resentment are forgotten.