“And oh, Maisie!” she exclaimed, “how did you get on with Despard? Is he not delightful?”
Miss Fforde smiled quietly. They were standing in her room, for she was to spend a night or two with her friend.
“I—to tell you the truth, I would much rather not speak about him,” she said. “He is very good looking, and—well, not stupid, I dare say. But I am not used to men, you know, Gertrude—not to men of the day, at least, of which I suppose he is a type. I cannot say that I care to see more of them. I am happier at home with papa.”
She turned away quickly. Gertrude did not see the tears that rose to the girl’s eyes, or the rush of colour that overspread her face at certain recollections of that evening. She was nineteen, but it was her first “real” dance, and she felt as if years had passed since the afternoon only two days ago when she had arrived.
Mrs Englewood looked and felt sadly disappointed. She had been so pleased with her own diplomacy.
“It will be different when you are a little more in the way of it,” she said. “And—I really don’t think your father should insist on your dressing quite so plainly. It will do the very thing he wants to avoid—it will make you remarkable.”
“No, no,” said Maisie, shaking her head. “Papa is quite right. You must allow it had not that effect this evening. No one asked to be introduced to me.”
“There was such a crowd—” Gertrude began, but this time Maisie’s smile was quite a hearty one as she interrupted her.
“Never mind about that,” she said. “But do tell me one thing. I saw Mr Norreys speaking to you for a moment as he went out. You didn’t say anything about me to him, I hope?”
“No,” said Mrs Englewood, “I did not. I would have liked to do so,” she added honestly, “but somehow he looked queer—not exactly bored, but not encouraging. So I just let him go.”