She raised her dreamy eyes to his as she spoke the word “mercenary,” He reddened and stumbled--they were dancing the two-step. “I wish _you_ wouldn’t look at me like that,” he said, with an ingenuousness wholly unconscious. “It reminds me of my sins, and--and--all that.”
She trembled slightly, as he could plainly feel in his encircling arm. He looked down at her--she always was ethereally beautiful in evening dress. In his admiration he almost forgot how rich she was; he quite forgot how oppressively intellectual she was. “Do you--do you----” he began. Then he stopped dancing and led her into the hall, through the hall to the library. Two other couples were there, but far enough from the corner to which he took her.
“I love the odour of a cigarette,” she replied, in a voice that encouraged him to resume where he had abruptly left off.
“No,” she said, in a tone that was subtly modulated to mean apology or reproach, according as he liked or disliked women smoking.
“Do you really like England?” he began nervously, seeing to it that his glass was firmly adjusted.
“I adore it!” Usually she would have gone on into poetical prose unlimited. But this, she felt, was a time for short answers.
“Would you--mind England--with--with----”
He halted altogether, and she slowly raised her heavy lids until her eyes met his.
“Catherine!” He seized her hand, and the thrill of her touch went through him. “You are so lovely. I--I’m horribly fond of you.”
She sighed. “Isn’t it beautiful?” she said. “This lovely dance--these fascinating surroundings--the music--the dim lights--and--and----” She lifted her eyes to his again.
He murmured her name, threw away his cigarette, looked round to see where the other eyes in that room were, then clasped her round the waist for an instant. “Will you? Will you?” he exclaimed.
“Yes,” she replied, in a tone so faint that he barely heard.
“You have made me happy.” And he meant it.
“How satisfactory she is in every way,” he was saying to himself. “Looks, money, everything. I’m a lucky dog.” And she was saying to herself, “Countess of Frothingham! How strong and fine and simple he is. I love him!” But when he suggested speaking to her father at once she would not have it. “No--I want it to be just our secret for a little while,” she pleaded. “Don’t _you_?” He did not see any reason for it, but he said “Yes” with a surface reflection of her earnestness.