"Shall we finish the dance first?"
"No," I am looking longingly into the cool green light of the conservatory beyond me. "See how delicious it is in there. Let us find a seat."
Still he hesitates, as though unwilling to move in the desired direction.
"It seems a pity to lose this music," he says. "Afterwards we could rest."
I turn my eyes mischievously upon him.
"Who? is keen about dancing now?" I ask, gayly. "Not I. For my part, I pine for a sofa. As you will have it, I confess I am just a little wee bit tired."
We walk on through the outer nest of flowers into the smaller one beyond, which is if anything dimlier lit, calmer, more subtly perfumed. The nameless fragrance is everywhere, the splash, splash of a small fountain falls soothingly on the ear; the music, though distinct, is strangely, dreamily distant.
Some tall shrubs are dispersed here and there; behind them cozy seats are hidden; shadows of a darker shade envelope them.
As with purposeless steps I pass by a rather larger one of these I suddenly find myself face to face with Lady Blanche Going and—Marmaduke.
Now there is no earthly reason why they should not be here alone together; hundreds of other couples, tired and warm from dancing, have probably done the same; yet, as my eyes fall upon them, a strange feeling that is partly anger, partly pain, troubles me. All my gay wild spirits sink and disappear. I know my face has lost its vivacity and expresses only surprise and chagrin.