The tone constituted a rebuff, and Rita’s coquetry deserted her, leaving her mortified and piqued. She stared at Pyne, biting her lip.
“You don’t like me tonight,” she declared. “If I look ugly, it’s your fault; you told me to wear this horrid old costume!”
He laughed in a forced, unnatural way.
“You are quite well aware that you could never look otherwise than maddeningly beautiful,” he said harshly. “Do you want me to recall the fact to you again that you are shortly to be Monte Irvin’s wife—or should you prefer me to remind you that you have declined to be mine?”
Turning slowly, he walked away, but:
“Oh, Lucy!” whispered Rita.
He paused, looking back.
“I know now why you didn’t want me to come,” she said. “I—I’m sorry.”
The hard look left Sir Lucien’s face immediately and was replaced by a curious, indefinable expression, an expression which rarely appeared there.
“You only know half the reason,” he replied softly.