"I'm afraid I don't know how."
"Fate will, anyway, unless I am placed next you at dinner," he said with his most reassuring smile, and rose gracefully.
"I'm going to fix it," he added, and, pushing his way toward his hostess, disappeared in the crush.
Later young Grandcourt reappeared from the crush to take her in. Every table seated eight, and, sure enough, as she turned involuntarily to glance at her neighbour on the right, it was Dysart's pale face, cleanly cut as a cameo, that met her gaze. He nodded back to her with unfeigned satisfaction at his own success.
"That's the way to manage," he said, "when you want a thing very much. Isn't it, Miss Seagrave?"
"You did not ask me whether I wanted it," she said.
"Don't you want me here? If you don't—" His features fell and he made a pretence of rising. His pale, beautifully sculptured face had become so fearfully serious that she coloured up quickly.
"Oh, you wouldn't do such a thing—now! to embarrass me."
"Yes, I would—I'd do anything desperate."
But she had already caught the flash of mischief, and realising that he had been taking more or less for granted in tormenting her, looked down at her plate and presently tasted what was on it.