"Will you come out into the gardens instead? I want—I must speak to you."
"You may speak to me here, or in the garden, or any where," says Georgie, rather frightened by the vehemence of his tone.
She lets him lead her down the stone steps that lead to the shrubberies outside, and from thence to the gardens. The night is still. The waning moonlight clear as day. All things seem calm and full of rest,—that deepest rest that comes before the awakening.
"Who is your new friend?" asks he, abruptly, when silence any longer has become impossible.
"Mr. Kennedy. He is not exactly a friend. I met him one night before in all my life, and he was very kind to me——"
"One night!" repeats Dorian, ignoring the fact that she yet has something more to say. "One night! What an impression"—unkindly—"he must have made on that memorable occasion, to account for the very warm reception accorded to him this evening!"
She turns her head away from him, but makes no reply.
"Why did you promise me that dance if you didn't mean giving it?" he goes on, with something in his voice that resembles passion, mixed with pain. "I certainly believed you in earnest when you promised it to me."
"You believed right: I did mean it. Am I not giving it?" says Georgie, bewildered, her eyes gleaming, large and troubled, in the white light that illumines the sleeping world. "It is your fault that we are not dancing now. I, for my part, would much rather be inside, with the music, than out here with you, when you talk so unkindly."
"I have no doubt you would rather be anywhere than with me," says Dorian, hastily; "and of course this new friend is intensely interesting."