Barbara's face changed, and she interrupted him crisply. His first phrases had been interesting enough, but at the words "uncommon deep interest in the quarrel," the vision of that unknown woman floated up and laughed in her face.
"I am weary of the subject, Captain Patten. It seems to me it should be possible to talk of something else. If not, let us listen to the music, please!"
Never before had Cary Patten been so snubbed. The experience was novel to him, and he did not like it. But he found more than ample compensation in the thought that Barbara's words showed no impassioned interest in Robert Gault! If such a fight, and in such a cause, left her indifferent, then surely he need have no great fear of Robert as a rival. To be sure, he thought Barbara's indifference a little cruel, a little heartless,—but so much the greater the reward if he could awaken heart in this flashing, audacious, irresistible little witch. Cary Patten had small knowledge of the feminine heart, being much absorbed in his boyish ambitions, his dreams of splendid daring; and he had a healthy, well-founded faith in his own powers. His bright, handsome face looked glum for a moment or two; then he laughed frankly and cried:
"Served me just right, for being so bold, sweet mistress. I implore you forgive me, and be friends! On bended knee I sue—to speak figuratively. I dare not do it in fact, you know, else all the men in the room would be on their knees about you, which would look singular!"
Yes, he was a nice boy, and Barbara not only forgave him, but tried to resume her old gaiety for his pleasure. So far as his pleasure was concerned, she succeeded; though older and keener eyes than Cary Patten's would have seen that her mirth was forced. He left her feeling that he had made no small progress; and he trod on air in his elation because she had promised him no less than three dances at the very next ball at which they should meet. His succeeding partners found him tender but absent-minded,—a combination which they interpreted to their advantage or otherwise, according to their knowledge of men's hearts.
But as for Barbara's heart, it was now yielding to the strain, and she felt that she could keep up the play no longer. Her anger had given out before the need of it, as a stimulant to flirtation, was past. Only pain, humiliation, disappointment, remained to her, and she felt that if she did not get away at once something would happen. With all the obstinate force of her will she kept a hold upon her imperious vivacity, and would hear no appeals when her next partner was bidden to fetch her uncle and call her coach.
"Take me home, please, Uncle Bob!" she pleaded; and he, after a glance into her eyes, yielded comprehendingly. Her reason for going, indeed, he did not comprehend; but her need of going he comprehended instantly. Till the very last moment she kept herself at pitch, laughing, sweetly jibing, taunting, provoking, inviting, so that the men who insisted on helping Glenowen escort her to her coach felt that the glitter had gone from the dance with her departure. But once safe inside the coach, and beyond the lights, she flung herself upon Uncle Bob's neck and broke into a storm of sobbing. She vouchsafed no explanation, and the sagacious Glenowen asked no questions; and she wept, intermittently, all the way to the high-stooped old Dutch house on State Street. To such a bitter end had come the evening, the wondrous evening, of which she had hoped, expected, claimed so much!
CHAPTER XXVI.
Barbara slept little, but lay late, and Glenowen was away about business ere she appeared. By the time her caller arrived she was fairly herself, only subdued in spirit, sorrowful, and homesick. She had taken pains, however, that her morning toilet should be becoming; and Jerry Waite thought her pallor, the shadows about her great grave eyes, the wistfulness of her scarlet mouth, even more enchanting than her radiance and sparkle of the night before.