The music ceased, and he led her off the floor, to one of the adjoining rooms, where refreshments were served. These were of a very simple nature, the strongest drink offered being a mild claret-cup. Mr. Beaumaris procured a glass of lemonade for Arabella, and said: “You must let me thank you for a delightful few minutes, Miss Tallant: I have seldom enjoyed a dance more.” He received only a slight smile, and an inclination of the head in answer to this which were both so eloquent of incredulity that he was delighted. No fool, then, the little Tallant! He would have pursued this new form of sport, in the hope of teasing her into retort, but at that moment two purposeful gentlemen bore down upon them. Arabella yielded to the solicitations of Mr. Warkworth, and went off on his arm. Sir Geoffrey Morecambe sighed in a languishing way, but turned his rebuff to good account by seizing the opportunity to ask Mr. Beaumaris what he called the arrangement of his neck-cloth. He had to repeat the question, for Mr. Beaumaris, watching Arabella walk away with Mr. Warkworth, was not attending. He brought his gaze to bear on Sir Geoffrey’s face, however, at the second time of asking, and raised his brows enquiringly.
“That style you have of tying your cravat!” said Sir Geoffrey. “I don’t perfectly recognize it. Is it something new? Should you object to telling me what you call it?”
“Not in the least,” replied Mr. Beaumaris blandly. “I call it Variation on an Original Theme.”
VIII
Mr. Beaumaris’s sudden realization that the little Tallant was no fool underwent no modification during the following days. It began to be borne in upon him, that charm her ever so wisely, she was never within danger of losing her head over him. She treated him in the friendliest fashion, accepted his homage, and—he suspected—was bent upon making the fullest use of him. If he paid her compliments, she listened to them with the most innocent air in the world but with a look in her candid gaze which gave him pause. The little Tallant valued his compliments not at all. Instead of being thrown into a flutter by the attentions of the biggest matrimonial prize in London, she plainly considered herself to be taking part in an agreeable game. If he flirted with her, she would generally respond in kind, but with so much the manner of one willing to indulge him that the hunter woke in him, and he was quite as much piqued as amused. He began to toy with the notion of making her fall in love with him in good earnest, just to teach her that the Nonpareil was not to be so treated with impunity. Once, when she was apparently not in the humour for gallantry, she actually had the effrontery to cut him short, saying: “Oh, never mind that! Who was that odd-looking man who waved to you just now? Why does he walk in that ridiculous way, and screw uphis mouth so? Is he in pain?”
He was taken aback, for really he had paid her a compliment calculated to cast her into exquisite confusion. His lips twitched, for lie had as few illusions about himself as had, to all appearances the lady beside him. “That,” he replied, “is Golden Ball, Miss Tallant, one of our dandies, as no doubt you have been told. He is not in pain. That walk denotes his consequence.”
“Good gracious! He looks as though he went upon stilts! Why does he think himself of such consequence?”
“He has never accustomed himself to the thought that he is worth not a penny less than forty thousand pounds a year,” replied Mr. Beaumaris gravely.
“What an odious person he must be!” she said scornfully. “To be consequential for such a reason as that is what I have no patience with!”
“Naturally you have not,” he agreed smoothly.