"Not at all. He will quite understand that there are reasons why he should be exceptionally treated."
"And do you think I will make him understand that?" she burst out, with pathetic indignation that filled her soft eyes with tears. "Do you think I would be so—so infamously rude and cruel? Oh, Mr. Kingston"—she never called him "Graham" except in her letters, though he tried his best to make her—"you don't want to spoil all my pleasure to-night, which was going to be such a happy night?"
"Your pleasure doesn't depend on dancing with Mr. Dalrymple, I hope."
"No—no; but may I not treat him like all the rest, for Lucilla's sake—for common politeness' sake?"
"No, Rachel. I don't want to be unkind, my dear, but you must remember your position, and that now you belong to me. A lady who understands these matters can quite easily manage to get off dancing with a man if she wishes, without being rude. You must learn those little social accomplishments, and this is a very good time to begin. Now let us change the subject. Kiss me, and don't look so miserable, or I shall begin to think—but that it would be insulting you too much—that you have fallen in love with this disreputable ruffian."
Mr. Kingston tried to assume a light and airy manner, but his badinage had a menacing tone that was very chilling.
Rachel, strange to say, did not blush at all; she quietly excused herself on the plea that she must go and arrange her dishevelled costume, and (having no private bedroom to-night) went a long way down the garden to a retired harbour for half an hour's meditation.
