Twice Montague had danced with the girl, but it amused him to leave her each time with some mocking pleasantry, the only answer to the smoldering question of her eyes. It was nearly midnight when he led her, almost without asking, into the deserted recess of the Le Roy's conservatory, and, beckoning her to a settee, sat down beside her. With her hands clasped on her lap she gazed fixedly at the shadowy garden showing outside.
Montague looked at her, and his eyes grew bright as they noted her poise, tempered by fear of him. He leaned over and rested his hand on hers.
"Please don't," she said quietly, making no effort to withdraw her own.
"Women always say 'don't,'" he said. "I suppose they enjoy a sort of preliminary tête-à-tête with conscience before committing an indiscretion."
"But I mean it, Dennis."
"All women mean it, my dear Vera."
Her color deepened, and she tried to release her hands from his, but his grip tightened until it hurt. She made no further attempt, and he moved still closer to her.
"Please let me go," she said, keeping her eyes steadily from him.
"You are inartistic."
"But I ask you—and you are a gentleman." Something of the dislike that he had always known she felt for him crept into her voice and left a nice tinge of irony.