CHAPTER XIII.
It was an evening in mid-February that Clytie went to a dance given by the Redgraves in their large house in St. John's Wood. Redgrave met her almost as soon as she arrived in the dancing-room.
“So you have come at last—we had almost despaired of seeing you. I think there are a good many men you know—all dying to dance with you.”
“Oh, give me a little breathing time,” laughed Clytie. “You have had time to fix on your cap and bells, let me adjust mine.”
“Don't touch yourself or you would spoil the effect,” said Redgrave, mixing the metaphor for the sake of an opportunity of expressing his admiration of her beauty. “I wish I could paint that portrait of you now: 'Clytie, woman and artist.' There is one advantage about that combination—it assures perfect taste in dress.”
He looked her up and down critically, stroking his long gray beard.
“I am glad you like me,” said Clytie. “It cost me sleepless nights, I assure you. Didn't you know it was my serious occupation in life?”
“Well, my dear, I hope you will have your reward,” replied Redgrave, laughing—“only you won't find anybody who admires you and your genius half as heartily as I do.”
He nodded, smiled, and left her as one or two men came up to her, programme in hand. She gave them the dances they requested, and took a seat near the door by the side of some ladies of her acquaintance, watching animatedly the waltz that was in progress.
“Good-evening, Miss Davenant,” said a voice, deep and resonant, that made her start and the colour mount into her cheeks.