“She’s egging me on,” he replied, slapping his thigh.
“Now then, now then!” exclaimed Kate, “none o’ your sauce.”
Muriel put her hand on Lord Barthampton’s arm, and turned away. She was feeling an indefinable sense of disgust; and she was glad to merge once more into the revolving mass of dancers, and to allow the brazen music to beat the thoughts out of her brain. Her partner did not speak. He was turning over in his mind the possibilities of future happiness, and the effort absorbed his attention, so that his dancing, never of a high standard, became atrocious.
The only solution of his perplexing problem was for him to marry a rich wife: then, if Daniel were to reveal the secret of his birth, he would not suffer a knock-out blow. He would lose his title and the fortune which went with it, but he would have refeathered his nest, and all would be well. And the partner with whom he was now dancing was an heiress, and a jolly fine girl into the bargain.
He was making praiseworthy efforts to check the downward course of his career, and ever since his interview with his cousin, he had been on the water-waggon; but, even though his reform were complete, was Daniel to be trusted not to dispossess him? He doubted it: the temptation would be too great. What a dirty trick his father had played him! But he wasn’t so easily floored: he would obtain another fortune by marriage, and then he could tell Cousin Daniel to go to hell.
“You’re looking very glum,” said Muriel, as they wandered out, presently, into the garden.
Lord Barthampton braced himself. “Yes, I am a bit down in the mouth, little woman,” he murmured. “You know, even we soldier fellows get the hump sometimes—sort of lonely.”
Muriel glanced at him apprehensively. She saw at once that the moonlight and the lanterns had had an instant effect upon him, and she presumed that he would now become sentimental. Self-pity is the token of a fool, and her feminine intuition told her that, since he was worse than a fool, he would probably picture himself as a stern, silent Englishman of heroic mould bravely battling against a deep and poetic loneliness.
She sighed sweetly, for there was always something of the rogue in her. “Yes, I understand,” she whispered, and she pressed her fingers sympathetically upon his arm.
His line of attack seemed to be justified, and he developed it with ardour. “Sometimes a chap comes to the end of his tether,” he went on, but paused again and squared his shoulders. “However, one’s got to keep a stiff upper lip, eh? We’re out here, far from home, just to do our duty, so we mustn’t grouse. We have to keep the old flag flying.”