“That is, and isn’t, an answer to my question,” he said. “Perhaps I should have worded it differently, and said, ‘do you like dancing?’”
“Sometimes,” said Mary, quietly still.
Mr Cheviott smiled again.
“One thing, I see, you do not like,” he said, “and that is, being catechised. I asked you if you liked dancing because, I fear, I do not dance well, and if you were fanatica on the subject I should be afraid of displeasing you. However, suppose we try?”
He did not dance badly, but with a certain indifference which Mary found provoking. This, and a suspicion of patronising in his last words, inspirited her to take a different tone.
“I do not think you dance ill,” she said, when they stopped, “but any one could tell that you do not care about it.”
“How?” he said, if truth be told, ever so slightly nettled—for what man likes to be “damned with faint praise,” by a girl in her teens, whoever she may be?
“Oh I can’t tell you. It would be quite different if you liked it. There is no verve in your dancing,” she replied.
She could see he was annoyed, and somehow she was not sorry for it. He took refuge again in a patronising tone.
“Do you speak French?” he inquired, with a slight air of surprise.