"And you don't like him? Few men like him. I wonder why that is?"
"And many women?" questioned Keith, as for a moment he recalled Mrs. Wentworth's face when he spoke of him.
"Some women," she corrected, with a quick glance at him. She reflected, and then went on: "I think it is partly because he is so bold and partly that he never appears to know any one else. It is the most insidious flattery in the world. I like him because I have known him all my life. I know him perfectly."
"Yes?" Keith spoke politely.
She read his thought. "You wonder if I really know him? Yes, I do. But, somehow, I cling to those I knew in my girlhood. You don't believe that, but I do." She glanced at him and then looked away.
"Yes, I do believe it. Then let's be friends--old friends," said Keith. He held out his hand, and when she took it grasped hers firmly.
"Who is here with you to-night?" he asked.
"No one. Mr. Lancaster does not care for balls."
"Won't you give me the pleasure of seeing you home?" She hesitated for a moment, and then said:
"I will drop you at your hotel. It is right on my way home."