"Why? What excuse can I offer? You ask me to be rude to him, and yet give no reason why I should be so."
"You intend dancing it with him then?" sternly.
"Certainly," in a freezing tone.
"Very good. Do so." And, turning on his heel, he walks quietly and slowly away.
"I fear I have displaced a better man," says Sir Mark, lightly, as he joins me. "Will you forgive me? I could not resist reminding you of your promise of this."
"I fear I must undo that promise," I return, gayly. "I am really fatigued. To dance with me now would be no advantage to any one."
"Am I to thank Carrington for this disappointment? Was he fearful of your being over-tired?" He is courteous as ever, yet it seems to me the very faintest suspicion of a sneer comes to his lips—so faint that a moment later I doubt it has ever been.
"No," I return, calmly. "You give him credit for too much thoughtfulness. So far from dreaming of fatigue, he even asked me just now to dance with him—was not that self-denying of him?—but I only took one small turn. You forget I am not yet in proper training. I have had very little practice in my time."
"Let me get you an ice. No? Some champagne, then? Iced water?"
"Nothing thank you."