That shower of fluent words flowed on, but Archie’s attention to it suddenly failed. For out of the dimness nearer to him, through the sound of the softly tinkling notes, came a soft but very distinct question—“Why should you, Mr. Rowland, wish for a ball?”
“I don’t,” he cried abruptly in his surprise.
“Then you gave a false impression. Mrs. Rowland must think from what you said that you gave the project your support.” She spoke without turning her head, playing softly all the while, speaking in her usual calm and serious vein.
“I would not oppose,” said Archie, “what Marion wanted, and you.”
“You are quite right to put Marion first. It is not generally accounted civil, but it was honest, and I like it from you. I do not care—I am not fond of dancing. There are so many things more important in this life. I should have been surprised if you had wished it,” she added after an interval, during which she had gone on modulating, with her hands pressed down upon the keys.
“Would you tell me why?” said Archie timidly out of the dim world behind her.
“Oh,” she said, “not because it is the fashion with a certain sort of young man, for I don’t suppose you would—” she meant to say “know,” in her disdain, but moved by some better feeling, said instead “care. But I should not think you were fond of dancing,” she said, pressing firmly upon the two bass keys.
“You think,” said Archie, emboldened by the fact that she could not see him, “that I don’t look much like dancing. And it’s true. I am not good at it. Marion is, though,” he said after a little pause.
“And what has that got to do with you?”
“Oh!” he said surprised. Then after a pause, “I would naturally like her to be pleased.”