"No! that—is—my wife—" he said, with a look of triumph.
"Your wife! Why, what do you mean?" she inquired, thinking he was jesting.
"Just what I say," he replied. Then, with insufferable insolence, he hissed in her ear, "Louis Taschereau never forgives."
"Indeed," she answered, assuming an air of indifference that surprised even herself; for she had felt the hot, indignant blood, coursing through her veins.
"Really," he said, with cool effrontery, "that assumption of indifference is sublime. But I am not deceived," he continued, with a scornful laugh; "my revenge is most complete, my plans have been entirely successful," and making her a low bow, he retired. And Isabel was left to her own thoughts. But this would not do; she must not—dare not—think; she must have excitement until she could be quite alone. Fortunately, Harry now claimed her as his partner. "Oh, Harry," she said, "I am so tired of sitting here."
"Why, I asked you for the last dance, and you wouldn't come," answered Harry, laughing.
"I didn't think it would have lasted so long," she returned.
"Do you know that Louis is here?" he inquired.
"Yes."
"Don't you think his wife pretty?"