“That I would do it with you? I told you I’d do nothing.”
“Exactly; so that while it’s going on I might find some quiet corner where we may sit down and talk.”
“Oh,” said Isabel gravely, “you’re much too considerate of me.”
When the cotillion came Pansy was found to have engaged herself, thinking, in perfect humility, that Lord Warburton had no intentions. Isabel recommended him to seek another partner, but he assured her that he would dance with no one but herself. As, however, she had, in spite of the remonstrances of her hostess, declined other invitations on the ground that she was not dancing at all, it was not possible for her to make an exception in Lord Warburton’s favour.
“After all I don’t care to dance,” he said; “it’s a barbarous amusement: I’d much rather talk.” And he intimated that he had discovered exactly the corner he had been looking for—a quiet nook in one of the smaller rooms, where the music would come to them faintly and not interfere with conversation. Isabel had decided to let him carry out his idea; she wished to be satisfied. She wandered away from the ball-room with him, though she knew her husband desired she should not lose sight of his daughter. It was with his daughter’s pretendant, however; that would make it right for Osmond. On her way out of the ball-room she came upon Edward Rosier, who was standing in a doorway, with folded arms, looking at the dance in the attitude of a young man without illusions. She stopped a moment and asked him if he were not dancing.
“Certainly not, if I can’t dance with her!” he answered.
“You had better go away then,” said Isabel with the manner of good counsel.
“I shall not go till she does!” And he let Lord Warburton pass without giving him a look.
This nobleman, however, had noticed the melancholy youth, and he asked Isabel who her dismal friend was, remarking that he had seen him somewhere before.
“It’s the young man I’ve told you about, who’s in love with Pansy.”