That night was the Duchess of Datchet’s ball—the first person I saw as I entered the dancing-room was Dora Grayling.
I went straight up to her.
‘Miss Grayling, I behaved very badly to you last night. I have come to make to you my apologies,—to sue for your forgiveness!’
‘My forgiveness?’ Her head went back,—she has a pretty bird-like trick of cocking it a little on one side. ‘You were not well. Are you better?’
‘Quite.—You forgive me? Then grant me plenary absolution by giving me a dance for the one I lost last night.’
She rose. A man came up,—a stranger to me; she’s one of the best hunted women in England,—there’s a million with her.
‘This is my dance, Miss Grayling.’
She looked at him.
‘You must excuse me. I am afraid I have made a mistake. I had forgotten that I was already engaged.’
I had not thought her capable of it. She took my arm, and away we went, and left him staring.