In any case (with sudden vindictiveness) it was unlikely that Bertie himself meant anything; and yet—yet—he was just the sort of man to do an idiotic thing of the kind.
The music struck up, and the dancers drifted back to the ball-room.
Reuben, bowing himself away, turned to see Judith and her escort standing behind him, while the latter, gathering courage, wrote his name again and again on her card.
Reuben remained a moment in doubt, then went straight up to her.
“Good-evening, Miss Quixano.”
There was a note of irony in his voice, a look of irony on his pale, tense face; the glance that he shot at her from his brilliant eyes was almost cruel.
“Ah, good-evening, Reuben.”
She gave a little gasp, thrilled, bewildered. Long ago, her searching glance travelling across the two crowded rooms had distinguished the top of Reuben’s head in the hall beyond. She knew just the way the hair grew, just the way it was lifted from the forehead in a sidelong crest, just the way it was beginning to get a little thin at the temples.
Bertie moved off in search of his partner, with a bow and a reminder of future engagements.
“May I have the pleasure of a dance?”