"She isn't happy, Uncle Bob! But that isn't your fault, you dear, not ever in the world!"
As they moved apart from the promenading throng, and paused at an open window overlooking the terraces, Barbara's ears, acute as those of the furtive kindred in Westings forest, again caught a word that was not intended for them. She saw two painted and tower-headed dames, sitting not far from the window, point her out to another who had just taken a seat beside them; and she heard the newcomer remark, behind her fan:
"That ugly little rebel! Insult an officer of the king's troops for her!"
Barbara's face flushed scarlet, and she looked at her uncle. But he had heard nothing,—and she remembered that her ears were keener than those of other people. The remark, however, puzzled her, and started a vague, troublesome misgiving. Thereafter she found it difficult to resume the spontaneous fervour of her gaiety. Fits of abstraction would take her unawares; but her courtiers thought them merely another touch of art, effective as they were unexpected. She was now looking forward to the dance with Jerry Waite, and the explanation which he had so rashly promised. She had intended to snub him severely, but when he came for her at last he found her altogether gracious.
"Would you mind very much if we sat somewhere and talked, instead of dancing?" she asked. And Waite, nothing loth, led her to a seat just beyond the long windows,—nearer to the terrace than any other man had succeeded in getting her to go. This filled him with elation, and he was glad, rather than otherwise, that she had refused to go out among the walks and arbours. Here his triumph was visible every moment to his disappointed rivals. He was, of course, like the rest, half infatuated with Barbara; but being a sane youth, with a sense of humour, he knew the difference between infatuation and half infatuation. He imagined there was more between Barbara and Robert than there really was; and he did not hold himself any match for Robert in a race for hearts. Therefore, he was capable of thinking of his own prestige. And to heighten that he had an inspiration. When, after waiting till she could wait no longer, for him to bring up the subject, Barbara asked him to give her the promised explanation of his remark, he fenced cleverly till the time was close at hand when he knew she would be claimed by another partner. He saw this prospective partner, Cary Patten, eyeing her hungrily, ready to swoop down and take possession at the first permissible moment. Then he said: "In very truth, fair mistress, the explanation necessitates a long story. To tell you a little would leave me in a worse light than I could endure you to behold me in. The story comes first,—and then the explanation follows with ease!"
"When will you explain? My curiosity has been most artistically aroused!" said Barbara, maintaining with an effort her tone of sprightly merriment.
"If I might have the honour of waiting upon you to-morrow, I am bold to hope I might succeed in interesting you!" suggested Waite.
"You may come in the morning," answered Barbara, promptly. "Say about eleven o'clock."
The delighted Jerry was ceremoniously bowing his gratitude for this command, conscious that it would make him the envied of all the gallants of Manhattan, when Cary Patten came up and carried Barbara off with rather more eagerness than ceremony. He had been most hard hit of all her victims at the Van Griffs' ball, and had experienced deep dejection over the rumour which had that day associated her name with Robert Gault's. Robert's early departure from the ball had somewhat cheered him, however; and now, with that simplicity, not unlike Barbara's own, born of secure family position and careless disregard of convention, he determined to find out if the field were open. He saw that Barbara was distinctly friendly to him,—whether for his own sake or for what Glenowen had told her of his sympathies,—and he trusted to his directness to disarm her possible resentment of his questioning.
"If you will pardon me, gracious lady," he began, after the customary interchange of compliment, "I am going to ask you something about our friend Gault. Carberry was accounted till to-day the best sword in the colony. Now he stands second best! It took uncommon high courage or uncommon deep interest in the quarrel, to cross swords with such a master,—but, of course—"