"By the way, do you know my name?" she asked.
"No," he said frankly, "do you know mine?"
"Of course, I do; I listened breathlessly when somebody presented you wholesale at your sister's the other day. I'm Rosamund Fane. You might as well be instructed because you're to take me in at the Orchils' next Thursday night, I believe."
"Rosamund Fane," he repeated coolly. "I wonder how we've avoided each other so consistently this winter? I never before had a good view of you, though I heard you talking to young Innis at dinner. And yet," he added, smiling, "if I had been instructed to look around and select somebody named Rosamund, I certainly should have decided on you."
"A compliment?" she asked, raising her delicate eyebrows.
"Ask yourself," he said.
"I do; and I get snubbed."
And, smiling still, he said: "Do you know the most mischievous air that Schubert ever worried us with?"
"'Rosamund,'" she said; "and—thank you, Captain Selwyn." She had coloured to the hair.
"'Rosamund,'" he nodded carelessly—"the most mischievous of melodies—" He stopped short, then coolly resumed: "That mischievous quality is largely a matter of accident, I fancy. Schubert never meant that 'Rosamund' should interfere with anybody's business."