Mr. Blessington introduced him to a thin, nervous girl, his daughter. She was evidently unhappy, and Jack was sorry for her. He took her out for refreshments, and was kind to her. She made dark-grey startled round eyes at him, and looked at him as if he were an incalculable animal that might bite. And he, in manner, if not in actuality, laughed and caressed the frail young thing to cajole some life into her.
Mary danced with Tom, and then with somebody else. Jack lounged about, watching with a set face that still looked innocent and amiable, keeping a corner of his eye on Mary, but chatting with various people. He wouldn't make a fool of himself, trying to dance.
When Mary was free again—complaining of her foot—he said to her:
"Come outside a bit."
And obediently she came. They went and sat under the same magnolia tree.
"He's not a bad fellow, your Blessington," he said.
"He's not my Blessington," she replied, "Not yet anyhow. And he never would be really my Blessington."
"You never know. I suppose he's quite rich."
"Don't be horrid to me."
"Why not?—I wish I was rich. I'd do as I liked. But you'll never marry him."