“He dislikes me,” said the girl. “He is one of my failures.”
“I did not know you had any. Have you tried? I cannot quite admit the possibility of failure.”
Millicent Chyne smiled. He had emphasised the last remark with lover-like glance and tone. She was young enough; her own beauty was new enough to herself to blind her to the possibility mentioned. She had not even got to the stage of classifying as dull all men who did not fall in love with her at first sight. It was her first season, one must remember.
“I have not tried very hard,” she said. “But I don't see why I should not fail.”
“That is easily explained.”
“Why?”
“No looking-glass about.”
She gave a little pout, but she liked it.
The music of the next dance was beginning, and, remembering their social obligations, they both rose. She laid her hand on his arm, and for a moment his fingers pressed hers. He smiled down into her upturned eyes with love, but without passion. He never for a second risked the “gentleman” and showed the “man.” He was suggestive of a forest pool with a smiling rippled surface. There might be depth, but it was yet unpenetrated.
“Shall we go now,” he said, “and say a few words in passing to my redoubtable father? It might be effective.”