"I have usually met you together."
Claud made no answer. He was slightly piqued.
How could he know that for these few minutes the girl on his arm had hungered and longed all the evening, that all other interests had seemed to be merged in the one question—Would he stay, or would he not? How could he know that for the moment she was tasting a happiness as brief and delusive, though more controlled, than poor Osmond's?
Like most men, he only saw what she chose to show him—a disengaged manner, a sharp tongue, and her customary indifference.
It exasperated him. What! When the sight of her had moved him so unusually, was she to treat him as any one of the crowd! What a fool he was, to waste a thought upon her! He was in a frame of mind approaching the vindictive. He would have liked to make her suffer; as she, poor child, was feeling every moment as if the strain were becoming too severe—as though her store of self-command were ebbing, and she must betray herself.
They began to dance.
It has been truly said that our very waltzes are melancholy, now-a-days. This was a conspicuously sad one. It seemed to steal into Wynifred's very soul. It was as though the burden of useless longing must weigh down her light feet and clog her easy motion. She could not speak, and for some minutes they waltzed in silence. At last—
"I have not forgiven you for thinking I should fail to keep my appointment," said he.
"You seem very much exercised on the subject," she laughed back. "I am sorry it entailed so much effort and self-denial."
"You wilfully misinterpret, as Darcy said to Elizabeth Bennett."