"Do you know this is the first time I ever danced with you?" I say, struck myself by the oddness of the idea.
"I know." And in another moment we are keeping time to one of the dreamiest airs of Strauss. No, not even Mark Gore is a better dancer than Marmaduke.
When we have taken just one bare turn round the room, 'Duke stops short and leads me on to a balcony that by some chance is vacant.
"There! I won't inflict myself upon you any longer," he says, quietly. "You dance very well. After all practice has nothing to do with it. Will you sit down? Or shall I find you a partner for the remainder of this waltz?"
"Are you in such a hurry to be gone?"
"No; certainly not," seating himself beside me.
Silence.
"I really wish, Marmaduke," I burst out, petulantly, "you would say what has aggrieved you, instead of sitting there frowning and glowering at one and making people feel uncomfortable If you want to scold me, do so. I dare say I shall survive it."
This piece of impertinence rouses no wrath in the person addressed, and draws no reply.
"Well, what is it?" I go on. "I have been quite happy all the evening—until now. Every one else has been civil to me. If you must be disagreeable, be so at once. What have I done?"