a face quite like it before. I suppose I didn’t look at her, she’s so badly, at least so desperately plainly dressed. I don’t, however, suppose she can talk, and I’d bet any money she can’t dance.”
As regarded the first of his predictions, she gave him at present no opportunity of judging. She neither spoke nor looked at him. He hazarded some commonplace remark about the heat of the rooms; she replied by a monosyllable. Despard began to get angry.
“Won’t talk, whether she can or not,” he said to himself, when a second observation had met with no better luck. He glanced round the room; all the other couples were either dancing, or smiling and talking. He became conscious of a curious sensation as disagreeable as novel – he felt as if he were looking ridiculous.
He turned again to his partner in a sort of desperation.
“Will you dance?” he said, and his tone was almost rough; it had entirely lost its usual calm, half-insolent indifference.
“Certainly,” she said, while a scarcely perceptible smile faintly curved her lips. “It is, I suppose, what we are standing up here for, is it not?”
Despard grew furious. “She is laughing at me,” he thought. “Impertinent little nobody. Where in Heaven’s name has Gertrude Englewood unearthed her from? Upon my soul, it is the very last time she will see me at her dances!”
And somehow his discomfiture was not decreased by a glance, and almost involuntary glance, at Miss Fforde as they began to dance. She was certainly not striking in appearance; she was middle-sized, barely that indeed; her dress was now, he began to perceive, plain with the plainness of intention, not of ignorance or economy. But yet, with it all – no, he could not honestly feel that he was right; she did not look like “a nobody.”
There was a further discovery in store for him. The girl danced beautifully. Mr Norreys imagined himself to have outlived all enthusiasm on such subjects, but now and then, in spite of the rôle which was becoming second nature to him, a bit of the old Despard – the hearty, unspoilt boy – cropped out, so to speak, unawares. This happened just now – his surprise had to do with it.
“You dance perfectly – exquisitely!” he burst out when at last they stopped. It was his second dance that evening only; neither he nor Miss Fforde was the least tired, and the room was no longer so crowded.
She looked up. There was no flush of gratification on her face, only a very slight – the slightest possible – sparkle in the beautiful eyes.
“Yes,” she said quietly; “I believe I can dance well.”
Despard bit his lips. For once in his life he felt absolutely at a loss what to say. Yet remain silent he would not, for by so doing it seemed to him as if he would be playing into the girl’s hands.
“I will make her talk,” he vowed internally.
It was not often he cared to exert himself, but he could talk, both intelligently and agreeably, when he chose to take the trouble. And gradually, though very gradually only, Miss Fforde began to thaw. She, too, could talk; though her words were never many, they struck him as remarkably well chosen and to the point. Yet more, they incited him to further effort. There was the restraint of power about them; not her words only, but her tone and expression, quick play of her features, the half-veiled glances of her eyes, were full of a curious fascination, seeming to tell how charming, how responsive a companion she might be if she chose.
But the fascination reacted as an irritant on Mr Norreys. He could not get rid of a mortifying sensation that he was being sounded, and his measure taken by this presumptuous little girl. Yet he glanced at her. No; “presumptuous” was not the word to apply to her. He grew almost angry at last, to the extent of nearly losing his self-control.
“You are drawing me out, Miss Ford,” he said, “in hopes of my displaying my ignorance. You know much more about the book in question, and the subject, than I do. If you will be so good as to tell me all about it, I – ”
She glanced up quickly with, for the first time, a perfectly natural and unconstrained expression on her face.
“Indeed – indeed, no,” she said. “I am very ignorant. In some ways I have had little opportunity of learning.”
Despard’s face cleared. There was no question of her sincerity.
“I thought you were playing me off,” he said boyishly.
Miss Fforde burst out laughing, but she instantly checked herself.
“What a pity,” thought Mr Norreys. “I never heard a prettier laugh.” “I did, indeed,” he repeated, exaggerating his tone in hopes of making her laugh again.
But it was no use. Her face had regained the calm, formal composure it had worn at the beginning of the dance.
“She is like three girls rolled into one,” thought Despard. “The shy, country-bred miss she seemed at first,” and a feeling of shame shot through him at the recollection of his stupid judgment, “then this cold, impassive, princess-like damsel, and by fitful glimpses yet another, with nothing in common with either. And, notwithstanding the rôle she has chosen to play, I – I strongly suspect it is but a rôle,” he decided hastily.
The riddle interested him.
“May I – will you not give me another dance?” he said deferentially. For the tenth waltz had come to an end.
“I am sorry I cannot,” she replied. The words were simple and girlish, but the tone was regal. “Good-night, Mr Norreys. I congratulate you on your self-sacrifice at the altar of friendship. You may now take your departure with a clear conscience.”
He stared. She was repeating some of his own words. Miss Fforde bowed coldly, and turned away. And Despard, bewildered, mortified even, though he would not own it, yet strangely attracted, and disgusted with himself for being so, after a passing word or two with his hostess, left the house.
An hour or two later Gertrude Englewood was bidding her young guest good-night.
“And oh, Maisie!” she exclaimed, “how did you get on with Despard? Is he not delightful?”
Miss Fforde smiled quietly. They were standing in her room, for she was to spend a night or two with her friend.
“I – to tell you the truth, I would much rather not speak about him,” she said. “He is very good looking, and – well, not stupid, I dare say. But I am not used to men, you know, Gertrude – not to men of the day, at least, of which I suppose he is a type. I cannot say that I care to see more of them. I am happier at home with papa.”
She turned away quickly. Gertrude did not see the tears that rose to the girl’s eyes, or the rush of colour that overspread her face at certain recollections of that evening. She was nineteen, but it was her first “real” dance, and she felt as if years had passed since the afternoon only two days ago when she had arrived.
Mrs Englewood looked and felt sadly disappointed. She had been so pleased with her own diplomacy.
“It will be different when you are a little more in the way of it,” she said. “And – I really don’t think your father should insist on your dressing quite so plainly. It will do the very thing he wants to avoid – it will make you remarkable.”
“No, no,” said Maisie, shaking her head. “Papa
