"But, Barbara," he exclaimed, "aren't you going to give me at least one dance?— Hold on, Waite, just a minute, will you!— You can't be engaged for all so early in the evening. I came at the very first, in hopes of catching you and getting several."
Barbara paused. By this time the thought of that other woman, for whom he had fought,—for whom he was wounded,—for whom he carried now this pallor,—for whom he had been too impatient to talk to Miss Betty behind the curtain,—the thought of that other woman was gnawing at her brain in a way to confuse her judgment. She was not exactly in love with Robert, but she was intensely interested, and in the course of the years a sense of proprietorship had grown up. The idea of another woman, with a prior claim, outraged her pride at the same time that it wrenched her heart with a sense of irremediable loss.
"You are not dancing, I understand, Robert," she said, looking coldly into his eyes.
Robert's heart gave an exultant leap. She knew about the duel, then!
"I had thought, my lady," said he, softly, "that you might, under the circumstances, consent to forego a dance or two, and talk with me about old times."
The circumstances, indeed! Barbara's eyes blazed in spite of all her efforts at self-control. This was insolence. Yet she could in no way show she recognised it. For a second or two she held her tongue.
"I hear you have been greatly distinguishing yourself, Robert," she answered, in a voice of somewhat artificial sweetness, "and have taken some hurt in the affair, and really should not be here at all!" She looked at her tablets with hypocritical care. "You should have found me earlier. I shall not be free to give you a dance for hours yet,—not till quite near the last. You will probably not be able to stay so long!"
Robert grew tenfold whiter than before, and his mouth set itself like iron. She knew,—it was clear she knew,—and yet she could act in this hopelessly light, cruel, merciless way. It was inhuman. Had she no spark of womanly tenderness? He would trouble her no more.
"No, I shall not stay," he said, quietly. "Good-night, Mistress Ladd! Good-night, Waite!" He took her outstretched hand so lightly that she saw rather than felt that he had taken it; bowed over it, so low that he seemed to kiss it, yet did not actually touch it with his lips; then nodded civilly to Waite, strode off down the side of the room, through the door, and was gone. Barbara little guessed the many eyes that had watched and wondered at the episode. She imagined that all were quite engrossed in the dancing.
"Now please take me to the other room, Mr. Waite!" she commanded. "I fear I was engaged for this very dance, and my partner will think me rude!"