“I am very tired,” she says to her partner; “Do you think I could get a seat somewhere?”
“Yes; but come out of this crowd. It’s awfully hot, and you look like the whitest lily, Zai—we’ll find a seat somewhere.”
So they go out, and he finds a chair for her in a vestibule, where a little cool air revives her.
“I must go. I have to dance this with Lady Vernon. Do you mind sitting here quietly till I come back?” he asks kindly, seeing how weary and wan she looks.
“I should like to stay quiet here very much,” Zai answers gratefully; “and don’t hurry back for me.”
She half closes her eyes, and fans herself slowly, and feels desolate—so desolate.
Her womanly triumph over Miss Meredyth has evidently fallen to the ground; Lord Delaval has either changed his mind, or else he was only laughing at her at Caryllon House—and as she thinks thus, Zai shivers with mortification and shame, and leaning her head against the wall, grows lost to external things.
She does not know how long she has sat here, and she does not care—all she yearns for is the solitude of her own room; but the ball is not half over, and hours—dreary hours—lie before her.
“Zai! is it to be—Yes?”
She starts up, flushing red as a rose—her heart beating wildly, her eyes with a dumb wonder in them.