She saw him start. She saw a sudden wavering gleam in his eyes which in another man she would have set down to fear.
“Miss Dora Glynde,” he repeated; and the expression of his face was so serene again that the look which had passed away from it began already to present itself to her memory as a conception of her own brain.
“When I was younger and shyer,” he said, with a singular haste, “I was afraid to ask a lady her name when I did not catch it, and—and I frequently regretted not having had the courage to do so.”
She recollected it all afterwards—every word, every pause. But then, as so frequently happens, knowledge aided her memory, and added significance to every detail.
“Are you staying with the Mazerods?” he asked.
“Yes, I am being shown life. I am doing a season. To-night is part of my education. To-morrow, I believe, we go to Hurlingham; the next day to a charity bazaar, and so on. I believe I am getting on very well. Aunt Mary is pleased with me. But I still stare about me, and show visible disappointment when I am presented to a literary celebrity or some other person of newspaper renown.”
“Celebrities in the flesh are disappointing.”
“Not only that, but I find that many of them are just a little common. Not quite what we in the country call gentlemen.”
“Ah! Miss Glynde, you forget that Art rises superior to class distinctions.”
“Yes, but artists don't; and artists' wives don't rise at all. I think you are to be congratulated. In your profession there are fewer persons 'superior to class distinction.'”