Luke was the first to come and ask for a dance--nay, he demanded it.
“Do you remember the last time we danced together?” he asked, as he wrote on her card.
“Yes,” she replied, in a voice which committed her to nothing. She did not look at him, but past him; to where Fitz was talking to Mrs. Harrington.
But he was not content with that. He retained the card and stood in front of her, waiting with suppressed passion in every muscle, waiting for her to meet his eyes.
At last, almost against her will, she did, and for one brief moment she was supremely happy. It was only, however, for a moment. Sent, apparently, by a very practical Providence to save her from herself, a young man blustered good-naturedly through the crowd and planted himself before her with a cheery aplomb which seemed to indicate his supposition that in bringing her his presence he brought the desire of her heart and the brightest moment of the evening.
“Well, Agatha,” he said, in that loud voice which, with all due deference, usually marks the Harrovian, “how many have you got for me? No rot now! I want my share, you know, eh?”
Heedless of Luke’s scowling presence, he held out his hand, encased in a very tight glove, asking with a good-natured jerk of the head for her programme.
“Is your wife here?” asked Agatha, smilingly relinquishing her card.
“Wife be blowed!” he answered heartily. “Why so formal? Of course she’s here, carrying on with all the young ’uns as usual. She’s as fit as paint. But she won’t like to be called stiff names. Why don’t you call her Maggie?”
Agatha smiled and did not explain. She doubtless had a good reason for the unusually formal inquiry, and she glanced at Luke to see that his brow had cleared.