"She is teaching the Redmond children. I told you so at the concert."
"I quite forgot,—utterly. How could one think of her as that, you know?"
"Now, please, do try and write plainly," breaks in Georgie's voice, plaintively. "Up to this I have not been able to read a single name upon my card."
"I'll do my best," says the fair young man. "Is that legible?"
"Bellew, is it? Yes, I can read that. Thank you, so much. Do you know, I haven't the faintest idea who I am going to dance this with, because"—examining her card—"it looks like 'Barleycorn,' and it can't be that, you know?"
"There once was a John Barleycorn," says Mr. Bellew, thoughtfully.
Clarissa has been claimed by Horace Branscombe, and has disappeared. Dorian, coming to the front, goes up to the little beauty in black and silver, and says, in a contrite tone,—
"I am so sorry I can't write; yet nevertheless I am John Barleycorn, and this dance belongs to me."
"Why, so it does," says Georgie, recognizing him in a naïve manner, and placing her hand upon his arm. She performs this last act slowly and with hesitation, as though not entirely sure of his identity, which has the effect of piquing him, and therefore heightening his admiration for her.
"You have forgotten me," he says, reproachfully.