"Are you so—fearsome?" she retorted evenly, and I got back instantly:
"It would almost seem so."
I had the satisfaction of seeing her lip go in between her teeth. (I should like to say something about those teeth—only it would sound like the advertisement of a dentifrice, for I should be bound to mention pearls once or twice.)
"You are flattering yourself, Mr. Carleton; I am not at all afraid to dance with you," she said—and, oh, the tone of her!
"I shall expect you to prove that instantly," I retorted, still looking straight into her face.
A quadrille—the old-fashioned kind—was called, and she looked up at me and put out her hand. Only an idiot would wonder whether I took it.
"This isn't a fair test," I told her, after leading her out in position. "You won't be dancing with me a quarter of the time, you know. Only the closest observer may tell, after we once get going, whom you are dancing with."
"That," she retorted, with a gleam in her eyes I couldn't—being no lady's man—interpret—"that is a mere quibble, and would not hold in court."
"It's going to hold in this court," I answered boldly, and wished I had not so systematically wasted my opportunities in the past—that I had spent more time drinking tea and studying the "infernal feminine."
She gave me a quick, puzzling glance, and as we were commanded at that instant to salute our partners, she swept me a half-curtsy that made me grit my teeth, though I tried to make my own bow quite as elaborate and mocking. I couldn't make her out at all during that dance. Whenever we came together there was that little air of mockery in every move she made, and yet something in her eyes seemed to invite and to challenge. The first time we were privileged, by the old-fashioned "caller," to "swing our partners," milady would have given me her finger-tips—only I wouldn't have it that way. I held her as close as I dared, and—I don't know but I'm a fool—she didn't seem in any great rage over it. Lord, how I did wish I was wise to the ways of women!