He rises and offers his arm in silence.
“It was Rayne who suggested your fancy dress, I suppose? I know he is great at such things,” he says, a trifle sullenly.
“Yes; do you like it?”
“No!”
“No! How very rude of you, Lord Delaval! I thought you were the pink of politeness,” she replies, laughing.
“I don’t like it because I feel as if you belonged to me, and I don’t care for you to wear what any other man suggests.”
“But I don’t belong to you,” she blurts out, on the spur of the moment. “Your feelings make a great mistake if they tell you I do.”
“They tell me that you will belong to me, however,” he answers, in a masterful tone, and Zai feels a thrill pass through her—a thrill of fear almost. It is not the first time she has felt it when this man has had a possessive ring in his voice.
Five minutes afterwards she has thrown off the feeling, and is dancing away as if her heart was as light as her feet; but when the waltz is over, she leans back against the wall, and wishes that she was dead.
“If you have one dance left, Miss Beranger, will you give it to me?” says a voice beside her.