"At least he is not rude," says Miss Broughton, calmly, plucking a pale green branch from a laurestinus near her.
"I am perfectly convinced he is one of the few faultless people upon earth," says Branscombe, now in a white heat of fury. "I shouldn't dream of aspiring to his level. But yet I think you needn't have given him the dance you promised me."
"I didn't," says Miss Broughton, indignantly, in all good faith.
"You mean to tell me you hadn't given me the tenth dance half an hour before?"
"The tenth! You might as well speak about the hundred and tenth! If it wasn't on my card how could I remember it?"
"But it was on your card: I wrote it down myself."
"I am sure you are making a mistake," says Miss Broughton, mildly; though in her present frame of mind, I think she would have dearly liked to tell him he is lying.
"Then show me your card. If I have blundered in this matter I shall go on my knees to beg your pardon."
"I don't want you on your knees,"—pettishly. "I detest a man on his knees, he always looks so silly. As for my card,"—grandly,—"here it is."
Dorian, taking it, opens it, and, running his eyes down the small columns, stops short at number ten. There, sure enough, is "D. B." in very large capitals indeed.