“Oh yes,” she said, “I think I did see you dancing with a young man whom I did not know—a mere boy.”
“No,” Imogen replied, rather hotly, “he’s not a mere boy; he’s twenty-four or twenty-five; and he’s very nice.”
“But it was Major Winchester you were dancing with at the end?”
“Yes, he’s rather too tall for me, and he is very old, mamsey,” and Imogen glanced up with a curious, somewhat perplexed expression.
“Old!” repeated Mrs Wentworth with a little laugh. “What ridiculous ideas girls have! I was just thinking you and he looked so—no, I mustn’t say what I thought when I saw you dancing together.”
“Mother!” exclaimed Imogen, and her cheeks grew scarlet.
“And what was that I heard him whispering as he said good-night just now?” Mrs Wentworth went on. “Something about ‘forgive’ or ‘forgiven?’”
“Oh, nothing,” said the girl, “only that he hadn’t come for the first dance he had asked me for. He danced it with Florence.”
“Poor Florence!” said Imogen’s mother, patronisingly. “She does not get too much attention. You should try to be kind to her, dear.”
“I!” Imogen exclaimed. “Nonsense, mamsey: She would not care for that sort of thing at all. I am only too flattered when she notices me. I don’t take to her much, but of course I admire her. Indeed, I’m rather frightened of her. Me be kind to Florence! Oh, mamsey, Florence could have any amount of attention if she cared for it.”