"Dear auntie, if you love me, 'fly not yet,'" she says, pathetically. "It is so long since I have danced, and"—with the faintest, fleetest glance at the guardsman—"I am enjoying myself so much."
"Lady Chetwoode, it can't be done," interposes Tom Steyne, who is standing by: "Miss Chesney has promised me the next dance, and I am living in the expectation of it. At my time of life I have noticed a tendency on the part of beauty to rather shun my attentions; Miss Chesney's condescension, therefore, has filled me with joy. She must wait a little longer: I refuse to resign my dance with the belle of the evening."
"Go and finish your dance, child: I will arrange with auntie," says Mabel, kindly; whereupon Lilian floats away gladly in the arms of her warrior, leaving Mrs. Steyne to settle matters.
"You shall go home, dear, with Florence, because you are tired, and Cyril and his exceedingly beautiful fiancée shall go with you; leave the small night brougham for Lilian, and Guy can take her home. I shan't keep her beyond another hour, and I shall see that she is well wrapped up."
So it arranges itself; and by and by, when an hour has passed away, Lilian and Guy discover to their horror they are in for a tête-à-tête drive to Chetwoode.
They bid good-bye to the unconscious Mabel, and, silently entering the brougham, are presently driving swiftly through the fresh cool air.
"Are you quite comfortable?" Guy asks, as in duty bound, very stiffly.
"Quite, thank you," replies she, even more stiffly; after which outbreak of politeness "silence reigns supreme."
When a good half-mile has been traversed, Guy, who is secretly filled with wonder at the extreme taciturnity of his usually lively companion, so far descends from his pedestal of pride as to turn his head cautiously in her direction: to his utter amazement, he finds she has fallen fast asleep!
The excitement and fatigue of dancing, to which she has been so long unaccustomed, have overpowered her, and, like a tired child as she is, she has given way to restful slumber. Her pale blue cashmere has fallen a little to one side so that a white arm, soft and round as a baby's, can be seen in all the abandon of sleep, naked beside her, the hand half closed like a little curled shell.