"There is no trouble." She began to rock, while he studied her profile; then, conscious of his look, she inquired, "Aren't you dancing?"
"No, just looking on, as usual. I prefer to watch. You have broken your fan, it seems." He flung his cigarette into the darkness and, reaching out, took the fan from her hand. She saw that his lips were drawn back in a peculiar smile.
"Well! Is that so strange?" she answered, sharply. "You seem—" She broke off and looked deliberately away from him.
"Row, eh?" he inquired, softly.
She could barely hold back her hatred of the man. He had worked powerfully upon her nerves of late, and she was half hysterical.
"Why do you take pleasure in annoying me?" she cried. "What ails you these last few weeks? I can't stand it—I won't—"
"Oh! Pardon! One quarrel an evening is enough. I should have known better."
She turned upon him at this, but once more checked the words that clamored for utterance. Her look, however, was a warning. She bit her lip and said nothing.
"Too bad you and he don't hit it off better; he likes me."
There was no answer.