“I wonder what he is thinking about,” thought Mary. “He must know we are poor. We have made no secret of it to Captain Beverley.”
“Shall we try again?” said Mr Cheviott, suddenly. “If I do my best, there is no saying but that, in time, I may catch a little of your verve, Miss Western.”
“You think I have a superabundance of it,” said Mary, good-humouredly; and, “Yes,” she added, when they stopped again, “that is better, decidedly.”
But again the look of preoccupation had come over Mr Cheviott’s face; he did not seem elated by her praise.
“Your sister likes dancing too, I suppose?” he said, after a little pause.
“Yes,” replied Mary, “she is very fond of it, and she dances very well.”
“I dare say she does,” said Mr Cheviott, “but she is too tall to dance with most men. I see,” he added, slowly, as if he had some little difficulty in going on with what he had to say—“I see she has been dancing a good deal with my cousin, Captain Beverley. He dances very well, in fact, better than he does anything else, I was going to say.”
Something in the words and tone roused Mary’s ire.
“I don’t see that dancing well need prevent a man’s doing other things well too,” she observed, coldly.
Mr Cheviott raised his eyebrows; he was quite his usual self again now, cool and collected, and satisfied that he was going to have the best of it.