“I didn’t know but that you might have changed your notion,” she replied.
“I thought you would give me credit for more stability of purpose than that.”
“Well, I’m sure I can see no harm in going to a ball,” was her rejoinder.
“That means you are going, does it?” asked Ernest.
“I rather think I shall,” she replied with an air of firmness, indicating expectancy of opposition.
“Well, do as you please,” he said.
“I am sorry you cannot go,” she remarked, after a brief pause, “because I shall be forced to accept another escort.”
“Who?” asked Ernest with an air of indifference that nettled Clara’s feelings.
“Mr. Comston.”
Ernest made a sudden movement which she noticed with pleasure. The first pang of jealousy had shot through his heart, stinging, tearing, sickening, shocking like a barbed arrow. It had not seriously occurred to him before, that there might be a rupture of the engagement into which she had so solemnly entered. He had regarded her as his wife, or at least, so near to that relation that the possibility of losing her, had not disturbed his thoughts. Suddenly this peril flashed into his mind, accompanied by a feeling of strong dislike toward the young man, whose name she had just pronounced with alarming tenderness. He tried to re-assure himself. Why should he for a moment doubt her constancy? How could she possibly prefer this dude to himself? No, no; how could she? And yet—. He dreaded to give definite shape to the vague thought confusedly working to the surface. Clara perceived her advantage.