He. “Oh, yes. I did not think much of him. Lucky dog! but he must be rather mean. They say that he is engaged to a girl in England, and has thrown her over for the widow.”
She. “Ah, you’re jealous! I know that you would like to be in his shoes. Come, confess.”
He. “You are very unkind. Why should I be jealous when——”
She. “Well, you need not hurt my hand, and will you never remember that black shows against white!”
He. “It’s awfully hot here; let’s go into the garden.” [Exeunt.]
CHAPTER XLVII.
Arthur emerged from his hiding-place, horror-struck at hearing what was being said about him, and wondering, so far as he was at the moment capable of accurate thought, how long this report had been going about, and whether by any chance it had reached the ears of the Bellamys. If it had, the mischief might be very serious. In the confusion of his mind, only two things were clear to him—one was, that both for Mildred’s and his own sake, he must leave Madeira at once; and, secondly, that he would dance no more with her that night.
Meanwhile the ball was drawing to a close, and presently he heard the strains of the last galop strike up. After the band had been playing for a minute or two, a natural curiosity drew him to the door of the ball-room, to see if Mildred was dancing with anybody else. Here he found Lady Florence, looking rather disconsolate.
“How is it that you are not dancing?” she asked.
He murmured something inaudible about “partner.”