“I shall never dance again,” he replied, with a dark and determined face. “Never. I’m surprised you should ask me.”
“Is it because you can’t get Blanche for a partner?” asked Laura, with a wicked, unlucky captiousness.
“Because I don’t wish to make a fool of myself, for other people to laugh at me,” Pen answered—“for you to laugh at me, Laura. I saw you and Pynsent. By Jove! no man shall laugh at me.”
“Pen, Pen, don’t be so wicked!” cried out the poor girl, hurt at the morbid perverseness and savage vanity of Pen. He was glaring round in the direction of Mr. Pynsent as if he would have liked to engage that gentleman as he had done the cook. “Who thinks the worse of you for stumbling in a waltz?” If Laura does, we don’t. “Why are you so sensitive, and ready to think evil?”
Here again, by ill luck, Mr. Pynsent came up to Laura, and said “I have it in command from Lady Rockminster to ask whether I may take you in to supper?”
“I—I was going in with my cousin,” Laura said.
“O—pray, no!” said Pen. “You are in such good hands, that I can’t do better than leave you: and I’m going home.”
“Good-night, Mr. Pendennis,” Pynsent said, drily—to which speech (which, in fact, meant, “Go to the deuce for an insolent, jealous, impertinent jackanapes, whose ears I should like to box”) Mr. Pendennis did not vouchsafe any reply, except a bow: and in spite of Laura’s imploring looks, he left the room.
“How beautifully calm and bright the night outside is!” said Mr. Pynsent; “and what a murmur the sea is making! It would be pleasanter to be walking on the beach, than in this hot room.”
“Very,” said Laura.