“How well you dance, Captain Trevor! So different from all the others.”
Rather surprised by such a plain-spoken compliment, flattery in fact—he was about to give it this name—but, without waiting his rejoinder, she rattled on,—
“And I hope you’re enough satisfied with my dancing to have me for your partner again—you will, won’t you?”
Solicitation seeming bold, almost to shamelessness. It would have been this in an English girl; but one knowing Clarisse Lalande, her impulsive nature, and the way she had been brought up, could better pardon it.
“It will give me the greatest pleasure,” was his response. He would not have been man—less gentleman—to answer otherwise. Both gallantry and good manners enforced an affirmative.
“Consider yourself engaged then!”
“By all means, Mademoiselle. For which set?”
“Oh! now—the next. I wish it.”
Another surprise to him, anything but agreeable. It interfered with his intentions, spoiling his own programme. But there was no help for it, no gain saying a wish so plainly expressed, and he stammered out assent with the best grace possible.
As the music for the second set was just commencing, she thrust her jewelled fingers inside his arm, and conducted him, rather than he her, back to the place of dancing.