"Who—I, Lady Dora?" he asked in extreme surprise, but most placidly; "not in the least—why should I be?"
"Because—because, it was strange my doing so."
"Strange! Lady Dora—you use a wrong term, I think; there is nothing strange in a natural action. Mr. Burton, to do him justice, is tall, gentlemanly in appearance, can converse on general topics most agreeable to ladies, dances very well—and what more does a lady require?"
"True—for all this you speak freely and truthfully; but you forget the character of the man—you forget——"
"And pray, my dear Lady Dora, what has character to do with a schottische or a polka? Even if a man be a slanderer, a liar, (pardon me the harsh, but truthful word,) and coward, the two first will not prevent his paying just compliments to your beauty, nor the last make him fail in keeping the time of a deux temps, though it might that of a hostile meeting, to answer for the two first."
"You are bitter, Mr. Tremenhere."
"Bitter! and towards him?" and he laughed. "No; pardon me, I feel too thorough a contempt for the man to waste bitterness upon him; I reserve that for those who may yet be saved by a little wholesome bark, or quinine, medicinally speaking."
"Expend it then on me. You must despise, or condemn me; you cannot approve."
"I do not judge you, Lady Dora; I do but try to hand down to posterity those perfect features of yours, and you sadly distort them," and he laid down his palette. "You are grieved, vexed; has any thing annoyed you? Can I serve you? Pray, command me!"
Minnie had crept from behind the bed. An irresistible impulse impelled her to do so when she found herself alone, and knew Lady Dora to be unaccompanied by any one, with Tremenhere. And pale, almost lifeless, she leaned against the door, and—oh! most scrupulous reader, forgive the fault!—listened.