He asked her whose dancing she liked best, Sylvia Grey’s or Marion Hood’s.
“I—I don’t know either of them,” she answered, wondering distressfully if she ought to use her silver knife and fork or an ordinary fork only for the pâté-de-something that the footman had just given her.
“Haw,” said the youth, “at the theatre,—don’t-cher-know,—haw—haw, very good.”
Nellie’s cheeks burned. He looked at her with impertinent admiration.
“Like to see a garl blush myself, don’t
-cher-know,” he drawled, “shows they’re young. Lord! what wouldn’t the old ones give to do it—our friend Miss Isabel, for instance?”
Nell’s pink deepened to scarlet under the cool audacity of his stare. This was the first experience of the kind she had had in her life; all the men she had hitherto met on equal terms had been gentlemen unmistakably.
But she did not speak; her long eyelashes lay [199] ]almost tremblingly on her cheek, and she took a mouthful or two of the pâté; she had decided to use the fork, and then crimsoned afresh to see most of the others employing knife as well. The pastry broke up into little flaky pieces; in vain her one implement chased them round her plate, she could only get a crumb to stay on the prongs each time.
“Haw—what lovely long lashes you’ve got, Miss—haw—Woolcot, wasn’t it? I suppose that’s why you keep persistin’ in lookin’ down, isn’t it now?” said the voice at her elbow.
She looked up in desperation, her cheeks aflame again.