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 appearan. . . Read More