“The cricket ball, my good man,” she exclaimed. “It’s been advertised for the last month.”
“But surely Mr. Brooke doesn’t countenance anything so frivolous as dancing?” remarked Lady Cynthia. “After the lecture he has just given me on my personal deportment the idea is out of the question.”
“Nevertheless I propose to come, Lady Cynthia,” said Brooke quietly. “You must forgive me if I have allowed my feelings to run away with me to-day. And perhaps to-morrow you will allow me to find out if the new image is correct—or a pose also.”
“What do you mean?” asked the girl, puzzled.
“ ‘Lady Cynthia Stockdale—possibly the best dancer in London,’ ” he quoted mockingly; “I forget which of the many papers I saw it in.”
“Do you propose to pass judgment on my dancing?” she asked.
“If you will be good enough to give me a dance.”
For a moment words failed her. The cool, the sublime impertinence of this man literally choked her. Then she nodded briefly.
“I’ll give you a dance if you’re there in time. And then you can test for yourself, if you’re capable of testing.”
He bowed without a word, and stood watching them as they walked down the lane.