They danced. Mrs. Sherwood, like most people who have command enough of their muscles to be able to keep them in graceful repose, danced marvellously well. When she stopped after a single turn of the room, Keith expostulated vigorously.
"You are a perfect partner," he told her.
"Take me in here and get me a sherbet," she commanded, without replying to his protests. "That's good," she said, when she had tasted it. "Now sit down and listen to me. You are making a perfect spectacle of yourself. Don't you know it?"
Keith stiffened to an extreme formality.
"I beg your pardon!" said he freezingly.
"That may be your personal individual right"—went on Mrs. Sherwood's low, rich voice evenly. She was not even looking at him, but rather idly toward the open door into the ballroom. Her fan swung from one finger; every line of her body was relaxed. She might have been tossing him ordinary commonplaces from the surface of a detached mind—"making a spectacle of yourself," she explained; "but you're making a perfect spectacle of your wife as well—and in public. That is not your right at all."
Keith sprang to his feet, furious.
"You are meddling with what is really my own business, madam," said he.
For the first time she looked up at him, dearly and steadily. In the eyes.
"Very well. That is true. Stop a moment and think. Are you attending to your business yourself, even decently? Yes, I understand; you are angry with me. If I were a man, you would challenge me to a duel and all that sort of thing." She smiled indifferently. "Let's take that for granted and get on. Sweep it aside. You are man enough to do it, or I mistake you greatly. Look down into yourself for even one second. Are you playing fair all around? Aren't you a little ashamed?"