Impossible though he would have imagined it half an hour before, Phil’s thoughts had been entirely destitute of Lucia for a few moments; suddenly, however, they recovered her, for looking across the head of a little rosebud to whom he had just been introduced, Phil beheld Lucia looking at him with an expression that startled him. He never before had seen her look that way,—very sober, half blank, half angry. What could it mean? Could she be offended? But why? Was he not for the moment in charge of his hostess, who, according to Haynton custom, and probably custom everywhere else, had supreme right when she chose to exercise it?
Could it be—the thought came to him as suddenly as an unexpected blow—could it be that she was jealous of his attention to Miss Dinon, and of his probably apparent enjoyment of that lady’s society? Oh, horrible, delicious thought! Jealousy was not an unknown quality at Haynton: he had observed its development often and often. But to be jealous a girl must be very fond of a man, or at least desirous of his regard. Could it be that Lucia regarded him as he did her? Did she really esteem him as more than a mere acquaintance? If not, why that strange look?
If really jealous, Lucia soon had ample revenge, for music began, and Miss Dinon said,—
“Have you a partner for the quadrille, Mr. Hayn? If not, you must let me find you one.”
“I—no, I don’t dance,” he stammered.
“How unfortunate—for a dozen or more girls this evening!” murmured Miss Dinon. “You will kindly excuse me, that I may see if the sets are full?”
Phil bowed, and edged his way to a corner, where in solitude and wretchedness he beheld Lucia go through a quadrille, bestowing smiles in rapid succession upon her partner, who was to Phil’s eyes too utterly insignificant to deserve a single glance from those fairest eyes in the world. His lips hardened as he saw Lucia occasionally whirled to her place by the arm of her partner boldly encircling her waist. He had always thought dancing was wrong; now he knew it. At Haynton the young people occasionally went through a dance called “Sir Roger de Coverley,” but there was no hugging in that. And Lucia did not seem at all displeased by her partner’s familiarity,—confound it!
He had to unbend and forget his anger when the quadrille ended, for a pretty maiden to whom he had been introduced accosted him and said some cheerful nothings, fluttering suggestively a miniature fan on which were pencilled some engagements to dance. But soon the music of a waltz arose, and Phil’s eye flashed, to a degree that frightened the maiden before him, for directly in front of him, with a man’s arm permanently about her slender waist and her head almost pillowed on her partner’s shoulder, was Lucia. More dreadful still, she seemed not only to accept the situation, but to enjoy it; there was on her face a look of dreamy content that Phil remembered having seen when she swung in a hammock at Haynton. He remembered that then he had thought it angelic, but—then there was no arm about her waist.
The pretty maiden with the fan had looked to see what had affected the handsome young man so unpleasantly. “Oh,” she whispered, “he is dreadfully awkward. I positively shiver whenever he asks me for a dance.”
“Awkward, indeed!” exclaimed Phil. A very young man with a solemn countenance came over just then to remind the maiden with the fan that the next quadrille would be his: so she floated away, bestowing upon Phil a parting smile far too sweet to be utterly wasted, as it was.