“I thought you were playing me off,” he said boyishly.
Miss Fforde burst out laughing, but she instantly checked herself.
“What a pity,” thought Mr Norreys. “I never heard a prettier laugh.” “I did, indeed,” he repeated, exaggerating his tone in hopes of making her laugh again.
But it was no use. Her face had regained the calm, formal composure it had worn at the beginning of the dance.
“She is like three girls rolled into one,” thought Despard. “The shy, country-bred miss she seemed at first,” and a feeling of shame shot through him at the recollection of his stupid judgment, “then this cold, impassive, princess-like damsel, and by fitful glimpses yet another, with nothing in common with either. And, notwithstanding the rôle she has chosen to play, I—I strongly suspect it is but a rôle,” he decided hastily.
The riddle interested him.
“May I—will you not give me another dance?” he said deferentially. For the tenth waltz had come to an end.
“I am sorry I cannot,” she replied. The words were simple and girlish, but the tone was regal. “Good-night, Mr Norreys. I congratulate you on your self-sacrifice at the altar of friendship. You may now take your departure with a clear conscience.”
He stared. She was repeating some of his own words. Miss Fforde bowed coldly, and turned away. And Despard, bewildered, mortified even, though he would not own it, yet strangely attracted, and disgusted with himself for being so, after a passing word or two with his hostess, left the house.
An hour or two later Gertrude Englewood was bidding her young guest good-night.