"I never felt better in my life," smiling up into his questioning eyes, and nestling the small hand still closer in his. "The cold cream chilled me after dancing so much, or," her natural truthfulness asserting itself, "I may be a little nervous, and that makes my hands cold."
"And what has made you nervous to-night?" his tone unconsciously stern and his thoughts full of the dark, despairing face that had looked up from the depths of the arm-chair at his queenly looking wife.
"Nothing," she answered, dreamily, while a swift flush burned on her cheek, and she turned away a little petulantly and began to trifle with the ice again.
"I beg your pardon, but it was something, and that something was the man who has just left us. Who and what is he?"
"Mr. Bruce Conway, nephew and heir of our hostess. He has been abroad four years, I think, and but just returned."
"An old acquaintance of yours, then?"
"Well, yes."
She turned toward him with marvelous sweetness and self-command.
"During my stay with Mrs. Conway I was naturally brought frequently in contact with her nephew. I found him a pleasant acquaintance."
"Nothing more—was he not a lover?"