Her eyes were dewy.
"I loved him—and promised."
She rose, touching his arm as the band struck up a fresh measure.
"You will lead me through the minuet?"
He bowed.
She did not meet his glance just then. A stately dance—too stately for some of the younger beaux who leant back, lolling against the walls.
Lord Denningham, side by side with Marcel Trouet, was looking vicious.
That dark-faced fellow—the younger Berrington—was as handsome as he was sour and strait-laced; a suit of peach-coloured velvet suited him to perfection.
Yet Lord Denningham's glance was not one of admiration.
The young devil—his rival—could smile too on occasion, it seemed, whilst Gabrielle was dimpling with happy smiles.