“With reluctance I abstained.”
“But I don’t intend that you shall. I have something to say to you.” He met her glance, and found it oddly serious—most oddly serious for her. Responding to its entreaty, he murmured a promise in courteous terms of delight at so much honour.
But either he forgot the promise or did not conceive its redemption to be an urgent matter, for the quadrille being done he sauntered through one of the crowded ante-rooms with Miss Armytage and brought her to the cool of a deserted balcony above the garden. Beyond this was the river, agleam with the lights of the British fleet that rode at anchor on its placid bosom.
“Una will be waiting for you,” Miss Armytage reminded him. She was leaning on the sill of the balcony. Standing erect beside her, he considered the graceful profile sharply outlined against a background of gloom by the light from the windows behind them. A heavy curl of her dark hair lay upon a neck as flawlessly white as the rope of pearls that swung from it, with which her fingers were now idly toying. It were difficult to say which most engaged his thoughts: the profile; the lovely line of neck; or the rope of pearls. These latter were of price, such things as it might seldom—and then only by sacrifice—lie within the means of Captain Tremayne to offer to the woman whom he took to wife.
He so lost himself upon that train of thought that she was forced to repeat her reminder.
“Una will be waiting for you, Captain Tremayne.”
“Scarcely as eagerly,” he answered, “as others will be waiting for you.”
She laughed amusedly, a frank, boyish laugh. “I thank you for not saying as eagerly as I am waiting for others.”
“Miss Armytage, I have ever cultivated truth.”
“But we are dealing with surmise.”