“Now one may begin to learn something. Oxford is precious little use. But it’s not worth while being beaten—in anything. Shall we say Thursday, then?—for our ride?”
Constance opened her eyes in pretended astonishment.
“After the ball? Shall I be awake? Let’s settle it on Wednesday!”
He could get no more definite promise from her, and must needs take his leave. Before he went, he asked her to keep the first four dances for him at the Marmion ball, and two supper-dances. But Constance evaded a direct assent. She would do her best. But she had promised some to Mr. Pryce, and some to Mr. Radowitz.
Falloden’s look darkened.
“You should not allow him to dance with you,” he said imperiously. “He is too eccentric. He doesn’t know how to behave; and he makes his partners conspicuous.”
Constance too had risen, and they confronted each other—she all wilfulness.
“I shall certainly dance with him!” she said, with a little determined air. “You see, I like foreign ways!”
He said good night abruptly. As he stood a few minutes on the further side of the room, making a few last arrangements as to the ball with Mrs. Hooper and Alice, Constance, still standing by the piano, and apparently chatting with Herbert Pryce, was really aware of Falloden’s every movement. His manner to her aunt was brusque and careless; and he forgot, apparently, to say good night either to Alice or Nora. Nobody in the room, as she well knew, except herself, found any pleasure in his society. Nora’s hostile face in the background was a comic study. And yet, so long as he was there, nobody could forget or overlook him; so splendid was the physical presence of the man, and so strong the impression of his personality—even in trivial things.