"Very. At least it seemed so to me," says Ryde with heavy adoration in his glance.
Feeling, rather than seeing, that Mr. Desmond has brought his fair companion to an anchor close behind her, Monica says, in a soft sweet voice,—
"I didn't mean to be late. No, indeed! I hurried all I could; but my aunts are slow to move. I was longing to be here, but they would make no haste."
"You really longed to be here?" asks he, eagerly. "Well, that was good of you! And now you have come you will be kind to me, won't you? You will give me all the dances you can spare?"
"That would be a great many," says she, laughing a little. "You might tire of me if I said yes to that. The fact is, I know nobody here, and certainly there is no one I care to dance with."
"You will have another tale to tell later on," returns he, gazing with unrepressed admiration at her charming face. "Before the avalanche of worshippers descends, promise me all the waltzes."
"Are my dances, then, so necessary to you?" with a swift upward glance.
"They are, at all events, the only ones I care for," returns he, clumsily, but heartily. "All the others will lie in the scale with duty."
"'Every subject's duty is the king's; but every subject's soul is his own,'" quotes Monica, lightly. "Why dance unless you wish it?"
"Because my soul is not my own," responds he, with a sigh. "I am bound to dance with every undanceable woman here to-day, or they will go home and revile me. You ought to be sorry for me if you aren't."