“May I ask you, Kershaw—” began his would-be rival.
“O, certainly,” answered Ernest benignly, “I will be with you presently;” and they floated off again on the rising wave of the music.
When the dance ended, they stopped just by the spot where Miss Ceswick was sitting. Florence and Dorothy were both dancing, but Jeremy, who did not dance, was standing by her, looking as sulky as a bear with a sore head. Eva stretched out her hand to him with a smile.
“I hope that you are going to dance with me, Mr. Jones,” she said.
“I don’t dance,” he answered, curtly, and walked away.
She gazed after him wonderingly; his manner was decidedly rude.
“I do not think that Mr. Jones is in a good temper,” she said to Ernest, with a smile.
“O, he is a queer fellow; going out always makes him cross,” he answered carelessly.
Then the gathering phalanx of would-be partners marched in and took possession, and Ernest had to retire.
The ball was drawing to its close. The dancing-room, notwithstanding its open windows, was intensely hot, and many of the dancers were strolling in the gardens, among them Ernest and Eva. They had just danced their third waltz, in which they had discovered that their steps suited better than ever.