“What does it matter whether they are glass or diamonds of the purest water? All the gems that were ever ground at Amsterdam could not make her more like a beautiful sylph—Undine—Titania—what you will.”
“Your comparisons are not flattering to the young lady’s intellect. Undine was mindless and soulless; Titania—if Shakespeare knew anything about her—was a silly little person who fell desperately in love with a donkey.”
Their waltz was over, but Miss Green wanted tea, or an ice, or a change of atmosphere—anything which would retain Vansittart in attendance upon her as long as possible. She kept him sitting by her side while she sipped her tea, and ridiculed the people who came in and out of the tea-room. She kept him in bondage while Mr. Tivett conducted Eve Marchant to the buffet, and talked and laughed with her gaily as she ate her ice. How prettily she ate that pink ice—with such a graceful turn of the delicate wrist! Vansittart had leisure to study every line of head and figure, while Miss Green prattled in his ear. He gave a little automatic laugh now and then, feeling that the lady meant him to be amused. Miss Marchant was a long time eating her ice, and was evidently interested in Mr. Tivett’s conversation. Vansittart watched her dreamily, not more jealous of Tivett than if he had seen her a few years earlier, playing with her doll; but just as she had resigned the empty ice-plate, and was moving towards the door, a man in a hunt coat met and stopped her with a semi-authoritative air that made Vansittart’s blood rush angrily to his brow, almost as if the man had insulted him.
“You are saving some dances for me, I hope, Miss Marchant?” said the unknown, with an easy, off-hand manner.
“I don’t know,” faltered Eve. “I mean I think I am engaged for a good many waltzes—as many as I shall care to dance.”
“Let me see,” taking her programme out of her hand. “Oh, you fair deceiver! Why, you might answer about this programme as Olivia did about her history—‘A blank, my Lord.’ I shall write myself against number seven—the dear old Manola—and eleven—a Waldteufel waltz—and, let me see, shall we say fifteen?”
The man was good-looking, dark-haired and dark-eyed, well set up, showing to advantage in the hunt coat—a man likely to be in request at a dance; yet it was evident that Eve Marchant wanted to avoid him. She looked pained and even angry at his persistence.
“My engagements are not upon that card,” she said; “and I am sure you must have a great many people with whom you ought to dance—sooner than with me.”
“That’s my business. I have set my heart upon at least three dances with you.”
“Then I am sorry to disappoint you; I am engaged for all those numbers.”