"Colonel Sahib," she said, proudly if just a trifle brokenly, "are you angry?"
"Angry?—good Lord!"
Then recovering control of senses and of sense—"But, dear witch," he asked her—"since when, if I may venture to enquire, have you become an adept in the fine art of—well—lying?"
Damaris looked around, her face irradiated by laughter.
"And you played up, oh! so beautifully quick! I was a teeny bit afraid you might fail me. For the idea came all of a minute, there wasn't time to warn you. And that was fortunate perhaps—for me. You might have had scruples. And I was obliged to do it. After talking about the things which really matter, I couldn't dance with that vulgar little man again—or with those jealous boys. They had an idiotic quarrel, actual quarrel, down in the garden. It displeased me. I told them so, and left them, and came here to find you—because of the fountain and the sort of home-sickness it gave me."
Between laughing and crying, Damaris held out her hands, the white moonlight covering her.
"Oh! I am tired of rushing about," she said. "Come and dance with me—it's nonsense to tell me you can't dance, and that you've forgotten how, because you have danced once this evening already—with Henrietta. I watched you and you dance better than anybody."
"With Henrietta—that's rather a different matter!"
"I should hope it was," Damaris took him up naughtily. "But dance with me, and then, then please take me home. Yes," as he tried to speak. "I know I had arranged to stay the night at the Pavilion. But I'll find some excuse to make to Henrietta—Haven't you just told me I'm proficient in lying?—You were going to walk back? Why shouldn't I walk with you? I won't be five minutes changing into my day clothes. It would be so fascinating down on the shore road at night. And I should get quiet all inside of me. I am tired of rushing about, Colonel Sahib, it hasn't been a success."
She stopped breathless, her hands pressed over her lace and satin swathed bosom.