"Norine!"
The name breaks from his lips at last. He still stands and stares.
She uplifts her graceful shoulders once more—the old French trick of gesture he remembers so well.
"I remind Mr. Thorndyke of some one, possibly," she says—impatience mingled with her "society manner," this time—"of some lady he knows?"
"Of some one I once knew, certainly, Mrs.—Ah, Darcy," he retorts, his face flushing angrily, his old insolent ease of manner returning, "I am not sure that you would call her a lady. She was a French Canadienne—her name—would you like to hear her name, Mrs. Liston-Darcy?"
"It does not interest me at all, Mr. Thorndyke."
"Her name was Norine Bourdon, and she was like—most astoundingly like you! So like that I could swear you were one and the same."
"Ah, indeed! But I would not take a rash oath if I were you. These accidental resemblances are so deceptive. Mr. Wentworth, if you will give me your arm, I think I will go and look at the dancers."
The last words were very marked. With a chill, formal bow to Mr. Thorndyke she took her escort's arm, and turned to move away. With that angry flush still on his face, that angry light still in his eyes, Laurence Thorndyke interposed.
"Mrs. Darcy, they are playing the 'Soldaten Lieder'. It is a favorite waltz of yours, I know. Will you not give it to me?"