“You are from the South; from Virginia, perhaps?”
“Not even that. A Yankee from Connecticut.”
“Strange! I shouldn’t have thought it.”
After a moment, as if her interest in me had ceased, she asked:
“You like to dance, of course?”
I bowed my assent.
“There is a little girl from the Opéra over there who dances beautifully. Ask her to dance.” Then, as I rose, perplexed, not quite certain whether to be angry or not,—“and later, come back and talk to me.”
The conversation had been in French and, though I was certain she was not of that nationality, I was unable to place her. I know that my first movement was one of mistrust, for my answers had been unnecessarily brusque. For no reason whatsoever I was conscious of an instinctive antagonism and yet I obeyed her suggestion and began a tango. From time to time I glanced in the direction of Madame de Tinquerville but, though I was certain she was observing me, each time I sought her glance I found her in languid conversation with the group of young men who surrounded her.
The dance ended. With a growing antagonism, I asked myself why I had so docilely followed her request. With a resentment that was like a child’s, I avoided her and did not speak to her again that night. This was the instinctive revulsion of our first meeting.