“It shall be as you wish; I shall be delighted to be your escort,” he answered gallantly, lifting up her programme in order to reserve the conventional three dances for himself.
Lady Marjorie looked her best that evening; and was, perhaps, conscious of the fact. She was dressed in white: yet not girlish white, for her gown was elaborately trimmed with incrustations of handsome lace, in the centre of each of which gleamed a minute ruby. The cluster of red roses at her breast set off to advantage the creamy smoothness of her neck and shoulders. The diamonds in her hair and at her throat seemed to enhance the air of distinction which was hers by birth.
To Herbert Karne she was by far the most brilliant woman in the room, although not being given to indulge in compliments he did not tell her so. But he spent every available moment by her side, and insisted on claiming all the extra dances. For once he broke through his customary reserve, and seemed suddenly to have become an impetuous youth again.
Lady Marjorie was glad that it should be so. To waltz with him to the entrancing strains of the “Blue Danube,” or to sit out with him in the flower-bedecked alcoves afforded her infinite delight. She knew that she was monopolizing the best dancer in the room, and that people were watching and might talk; but her eyes shone defiance at them all.
Her carriage came somewhat early, for she had not anticipated the pleasure of Herbert Karne’s company on the drive home. Fortunately he had not engaged himself for the last two extras; and after the “Sir Roger,” which she was obliged to dance with Squire Stannard, they left.
She gave a little sigh of satisfaction as the footman closed the door, and sprang up to his perch. Herbert drew her white cloak carefully around her, and arranged the rug at her feet. He seemed full of solicitude lest she should catch cold. They were both silent as the brougham bowled smoothly down the drive, and out at the stately gates. As they turned into the dark country road, Major Denham’s motor-car passed them at full speed. When the teuf-teuf died away in the distance, Lady Marjorie spoke.
“I do think Major Denham a terrible creature!” she remarked lightly. “We had quite a hot discussion this evening. He wanted to convince me that love and romance are entirely the result of a defective brain, sluggish liver, or disordered system. Did you ever hear anything so horrible?”
Herbert smiled. “Love’s young dream also?” he inquired.
“Yes; all dreams. I told him I was glad that so few of us possessed perfect systems if that meant doing away with romance. Why, just think of the poets, painters, musicians, and authors, who are all dreamers in their way. How prosaic and dull we should be without them: it is they who keep the world young.”
“I am afraid Major Denham had a firm opponent in you,” he remarked, trifling idly with her fan. “You are endowed with a romantic temperament yourself, Lady Marjie.”