His tone and expression, made Nancy wince—and yet this announcement was a profound relief. She glanced at him, as he sat in a favourite attitude, nursing his foot,—a very neat foot, and well turned ankle, in black silk hose.—She remembered how her father had chaffed him, and he said, "When I was at school I hurt my foot rather badly at rugger, and nursed it on my knee to keep it out of harm's way,—the trick has grown on me, I do it unconsciously."
"May I look at this?" he said, leaning forward and picking her programme off her lap.
"I'm not sure that it isn't one of my prerogatives. Hullo! so you threw over Lanark, and gave me his dance; I hope he won't shoot me? eh! Villars, Villars, Villars,—toujours Villars, why so much Villars?"
"Oh, because I know him rather well."
"I bet you don't."
"I see you don't like him."
"No: a fellow who can't play cricket, either physically or morally, who can't box, or shoot; just a good-looking blighter, with a glib tongue, and a face of brass."
"At any rate, he is clever, and accomplished; he sings and plays the violin, paints better than many professionals,—he dances like a dream."
"So you seem to think!"
"But everyone thinks it! I've been told, that girls have actually wept, because he ignored them at a ball."