She was speaking to Major Winchester. He could not help laughing at her exceedingly untechnical way of expressing herself.
“I am afraid there is nothing of the ‘born actress’ in you, Miss Wentworth,” he said. ”‘Do it again,’ oh dear!”
“Well, ‘act it,’ ‘play it’—what should I say?” she replied childishly. “Oh dear, I am so hot. And we are going to dance; did you know?”
“For your sake I am glad to hear it, if you are fond of dancing,” he said.
“I have only danced at school with the other girls,” Imogen replied dubiously. “But even that was very nice. Only this dress is so heavy. And it’s fixed that we are to keep our dresses on for the rest of the evening.”
“It is heavy, and hot, too, I daresay. But il faut souffrir pour être belle, you know,” he added lightly, “and it certainly is very pretty and becoming.”
He touched, as he spoke, some of the richly-coloured draperies of the fantastic costume. Imogen flushed with pleasure.
“Do you really think so?” she said. “I am so pleased. Do you know, Major Winchester,” she added, half shyly, “I believe that is the very first compliment you have ever paid me!” Rex looked at her kindly. She was very sweet, very lovely just then.
“What a dear child she is!” he thought to himself. For the best of men are but men, and he was keenly sensitive to beauty. He stroked the little hand that lay on the couch beside him, and Imogen’s colour deepened still more.
“And after all,” he said, “I fear my compliment, such as it was, was more for ‘Valesca’ than for Imogen.”