His divinity could not waltz at all. He instructed her for some time, a conviction darkly growing in his mind that she never would be able to master this subtle art. But what of that? Could he regret it, when she calmly said,

"I should like to dance with you a great many times, please, if you don't mind. I feel as if I needed a great deal of teaching."

CHAPTER x.x.xVII.

"Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt, Whene'er I pa.s.sed her; but who pa.s.sed without Much the same smile?"

_My Last d.u.c.h.ess._

"Our dance, I believe. Miss Allonby."

Wynifred, quietly seated by her partner, raised her eyes deliberately.

"You, Mr. Cranmer? I thought you had gone some time ago."

"Indeed? Am I in the habit of breaking my word?" asked Claud, stiffly.

"Oh," said the girl, as she rose and took his arm, "to cut a dance is not considered breaking one's word in _le monde ou l'on s'ennuie_, especially when to keep it would be to make the horses stand in the cold!"

"The horses are not standing now, so be easy on that score. I have not carried my heroism to that extent. Now, what made you say you thought I had gone?"

"Lady Mabel has been gone some time."

"Does that entail my going too? Had she not a gentleman in attendance?

Are there no hansom cabs in London? Do you think I am tied to Mab's ap.r.o.n-strings?"

"I have usually met you together."

Claud made no answer. He was slightly piqued.

How could he know that for these few minutes the girl on his arm had hungered and longed all the evening, that all other interests had seemed to be merged in the one question--Would he stay, or would he not? How could he know that for the moment she was tasting a happiness as brief and delusive, though more controlled, than poor Osmond's?

Like most men, he only saw what she chose to show him--a disengaged manner, a sharp tongue, and her customary indifference.

It exasperated him. What! When the sight of her had moved him so unusually, was she to treat him as any one of the crowd! What a fool he was, to waste a thought upon her! He was in a frame of mind approaching the vindictive. He would have liked to make her suffer; as she, poor child, was feeling every moment as if the strain were becoming too severe--as though her store of self-command were ebbing, and she must betray herself.

They began to dance.

It has been truly said that our very waltzes are melancholy, now-a-days.

This was a conspicuously sad one. It seemed to steal into Wynifred's very soul. It was as though the burden of useless longing must weigh down her light feet and clog her easy motion. She could not speak, and for some minutes they waltzed in silence. At last--

"I have not forgiven you for thinking I should fail to keep my appointment," said he.

"You seem very much exercised on the subject," she laughed back. "I am sorry it entailed so much effort and self-denial."

"You wilfully misinterpret, as Darcy said to Elizabeth Bennett."

"You are not much like Darcy."

"Now why?" said Claud, nettled for some unaccountable reason, "why am I not like Darcy? Your reasons, if you please."

"Don't ask me to make personal remarks."

"I insist upon it! I will not have my character darkly aspersed."

"Well, you have brought it upon yourself. The difference is that, whereas Mr. Darcy seemed excessively haughty and unapproachable on first acquaintance, yet was, in his real self, most humble, una.s.suming, and ready to acknowledge himself in error; Mr. Cranmer, on the contrary, seems easy, debonair, and ready to fraternise with everyone; but on closer knowledge he is found to be exceedingly proud, exclusive, and--and--all that a peer's son should be. There! what do you not owe me for that delicate piece of flattery?"

"What do I owe you? A deep and dire revenge, which I will take forthwith by drawing, not a contrast, but a likeness between you and Elizabeth Bennett. She was deeply attracted by the shallow, insincere, and fraudulent Wickham. She began by grossly underrating poor Darcy, and imputing to him the vilest of motives; she ended by overrating him as unjustly. In other words, her estimate of character was invariably incorrect. In this respect there is a striking resemblance between you."

"I can almost forgive you your unexampled rudeness, on account of your knowing your 'Pride and Prejudice' so well," cried Wyn, in delight.

"But, alas! what is a poor novelist to say in answer to such a crushing charge! I must retire from business at once, if I am no judge of character."

"Oh, you are young, there is hope for you yet if you will but take advice."

"Willingly! But it must be from one competent to advise!"

"And who is to settle that?"

"I, myself, of course!"

"You have great confidence," said Claud, "in that judgment which, as I have just told you, is incurably faulty."

"Pause a moment! One step further, and we shall have rushed headlong into a discussion on the right of private judgment, and, once begun, who knows where it would end?"

"We have a way of trending on problematical subjects, have we not?" said Claud, with a gay laugh.

He wondered at himself--his good humor was quite restored. Just a few minutes' unimportant chat with Wynifred, and he was charmed into his very best mood. She annoyed and fascinated at the same moment, she acted like a tonic, always stimulating, never cloying. What she might say next was never certain, and the uncertainty kept him always on the _qui vive_. He could imagine no pleasure more subtle.

He began to understand his danger more completely than heretofore.

To-night he realised that a continued acquaintance with Miss Allonby could have but one end. Was there yet time to save himself? Would he do so if he could?

The glamor which her presence shed over his spirit showed itself by outward and visible signs, in the genial light of the grey eyes, the smiling curve of the mouth, in the whole expression of the pleasant face. In her society he was at his best, and he felt it. Everything was more enjoyable, life more vivid when she was there, she was the mental stimulus he needed.

Yielding to this happy mood, which each shared alike, they sank into seats when the music ceased, scarcely noting that the dance was over.

Suddenly, in the midst of his light talk, Claud broke off short, e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.n.g. in surprise,

"By George, there's the tragedy queen!"

Wyn, looking up, saw Mrs. Orton in the centre of the polished floor, gracefully bidding "good night" to her hostess.

"I wonder--oh, I _wonder_ if she came across Percivale," said Claud, eyeing her intently. "I would give my best hat to see them meet! How she does hate him! I never saw a woman in a rage in my life really, until I saw Mrs. Frederick Orton at the inquest."

"Ah, you were there! I wish," said Wyn, "that you would tell me all about it. I have heard so few details. All that I have heard was from Mr. Fowler. He is very kind, but not a clever writer of letters. I think he is unaccustomed to it."

"Very probably. So he writes to you! I think," he looked keenly at her, "I never saw a more thoroughly first-rate fellow."