Ella nodded “yes,” as she went off on Louis Belvoir’s arm.
“Who can she be?” thought Sir Philip, as he stood there, looking after them, rather bewilderedly. “She is quite wonderfully pretty, and—what is it? Charming is such a stupid word. She is too simple and naïve to be called charming; her eyes are so honest, too. What or who is it she reminds me of I wonder? No one seems to know. And how odd she was when I alluded to ‘Cinderella.’”
He did not dance the next dance but hung about till he could claim “Miss Wyndham” for the promised waltz, and as he kept her and young Belvoir in view, he had no difficulty in finding her when the time came.
“This is my last dance,” she said, after a turn or two. “Mr Belvoir has just told me the time.”
“And is your chaperone quite inexorable? Would there be no use in trying to melt her—suppose we do?” suggested Philip eagerly.
Ella shook her head.
“No,” she said with a little sigh. “I promised not even to ask her. But oh, I have enjoyed myself so much,” and again came the little sigh.
Sir Philip’s eyes expressed the sympathy he felt, but he dared not venture on any more questions.
“I may meet you at some other dance before long, I hope?” was the utmost he risked.
“It is not likely,” she replied. “I am no—” and she hesitated.