“He has dared nothing that he ought not to,” Penelope interrupted. “His manners are altogether too perfect. It is the chill faultlessness of the man which is so depressing. Can’t you understand,” she added, speaking in a tone of greater intensity, “that that is why I hate him? Hush!”
She gripped his sleeve warningly. There was suddenly the murmur of voices and the trailing of skirts. A little party seemed to have invaded the winter garden—a little party of the principal guests. The Duchess herself came first, and her fingers were resting upon the arm of Prince Maiyo. She stopped to speak to Penelope, and turned afterwards to Somerfield. Prince Maiyo held out his hand for Penelope’s programme.
“You will spare me some dances?” he pleaded. “I come late, but it is not my fault.”
She yielded the programme to him without a word.
“Those with an X,’” she said, “are free. One has to protect oneself.”
He smiled as he wrote his own name, unrebuked, in four places.
“Our first dance, then, is number 10,” he said. “It is the next but one. I shall find you here, perhaps?”
“Here or amongst the chaperons,” she answered, as they passed on.
“You admire Miss Morse?” the Duchess asked him.
“Greatly,” the Prince answered. “She is natural, she has grace, and she has what I do not find so much in this country—would you say charm?”