She could not command her voice to reply. Shame, grief, indignation, struggled in her heart; yet her strongest conscious feeling was a determination that the tears in her eyes should not fall. She slipped past him, and moved toward the ball-room. With a quick step he gained her side.
"I beg your pardon," he said contritely. "I didn't mean to hurt you.
You used to be nice to me, but lately"—
She mastered herself by a strong effort. She was fully aware that there were too many curious eyes about her to make any demonstration safe.
"Let me take your arm," she answered. "Folks are watching. We need not make a spectacle of ourselves. I haven't meant to treat you badly. A girl never knows how a man is going to take things, and I only meant to be pleasant. As soon as you began to show that you were in earnest"—
She was so conscious that her words were not entirely frank that she instinctively hesitated.
"I have always been in earnest," interpolated he.
"But you will get over it," murmured she, desperately.
They had come to a group of palms, where they paused to let a bevy of dancers pass.
"Do you really mean," Stanford asked, in a hard voice, "that there is really no hope for me?"
"There is no hope that I shall ever feel differently about this."