“I intend to ask Mrs. Blake to dance.” Gregory betrayed nothing of his inner trepidation although he did not smile. He could always rely upon the stern mask into which he had trained his visage not to betray him.
Ora, oblivious of her resolution not to dance, rose and placed her hand on his shoulder, smiling an absent farewell to Professor Becke. For a moment she forgot her resentful interest in this man in her astonishment that he danced so well. She had the impression of dancing with a light supple creature of the woods, one who could be quite abandoned if he chose, although he held her as if he were embracing a feather. She wondered if it were his drop of aboriginal blood and looked up suddenly. To her surprise he was smiling, and his smile so altered the immobility of his face that she lost her breath.
“I feel as if I were dancing with a snowflake,” was his unexpected remark.
“You look the last man to pay compliments and murmur sweet nothings.”
“Are you disappointed?”
“Perhaps I am. I rather liked your attitude—expression, rather—of cool superiority.”
“Why don’t you use the word prig?”
“Oh, no!—Well, perhaps that is what I did mean.”
He stopped short, regardless of the annoyance he caused several impetuous couples. “If you did I shall leave you right here.”
“I did not. Please go on. Everybody is staring at us. You took me completely by surprise.”