Kenyon went nearer and put his hands on her arms, hotly. "Curse those men!" he said.
"What men?"
"The men who've been holding you to-night. Why have I come over? Can't you scratch these engagements and wait for me? I'm not going to share you with every Tom, Dick and Harry in this place."
A feeling of triumph came to Belle—a new feeling—because hitherto this man's attitude had been that of master. "You're jealous!" she cried.
Kenyon turned away sharply. For once he was not playing with this girl for the sport of the thing, just to see what she would say and do in order to pass away the time. The whole evening had tended to upset his calculations and plans. He had found himself thrown suddenly into a position of responsibility,—a state that he avoided with rare and consummate agility. And now came Belle, radiant and high-spirited, from an evening spent with other men,—more beautiful and desirable than he had ever seen her look.
Belle turned him back. "You are jealous, you are."
"Oh, good Lord, no," said Kenyon, with his most bored drawl. "Why should I be? After all it isn't for me to care what you do, is it? It's a large world and there's plenty of room for both of us—what?"
He walked away.
Triumph blazed in Belle's heart. She saw in Kenyon's eyes that he was saying the very opposite of the thoughts that were in his mind. She almost shouted with joy. She had longed to see into the heart of this man who was under such complete and aggravating self-control,—even to hurt him to obtain a big, spontaneous outburst of emotion from him. She loved him desperately, indiscreetly—far too well for her peace of mind—and she urgently needed some answering sparks of fire.
She didn't move. She stood with her cloak thrown back, her chin held high and the light falling on her dark hair and white flesh. This was her moment. She would seize it.