“Perhaps you wouldn’t care to carry it there?” she said, half jestingly. “It might spoil the look of that pretty plume.”
He was doubly perplexed now. To place the glove in his hat meant letting it remain there, meant more—a symbol to show that the giver of it was esteemed beyond all others. And that in her case would not be true. Besides, what would she say—what think—whose favour, not proffered but asked for, was already there? Despite all the contrarieties of the night, Eustace Trevor was not prepared to break with Vaga Powell by offering her such a slight—an insult. With much to make him sad and angry, he was neither sad nor angry enough for retaliation as that. Sure, moreover, to recoil upon himself—a reflection which needed no other to determine him.
But the challenge had been thrown out, and called for instant response—a yes or a no. Subterfuge was no longer possible, even had it been of his nature, and he resolved upon making a clean breast of it.
“Mademoiselle Lalande, however proud of the trophy you’ve been good enough to bestow on me, there’s a reason why I cannot wear it as you suggest?”
“A reason, indeed!” the voice in a tone half vexed, half surprise. “May I know it?” Then, as if repenting the question, she quickly added, “Oh, never mind! Give me back my glove, sir. Good-night!”
They, listening inside the pavilion, heard no more words, only the sound of footsteps passing away; first light ones in rapid repetition; then others heavier and slower; after which silence profound.