'It's very well to show it to her, but it's out of place to show it to others. Her father has told her not to dance with you.'
'And is that all YOU can do for me? I expected more from you, Mrs. Osmond,' said the young man in a tone of fine general reference. 'You know our acquaintance goes back very far—quite into the days of our innocent childhood.'
'Don't make me out too old,' Isabel patiently answered. 'You come back to that very often, and I've never denied it. But I must tell you that, old friends as we are, if you had done me the honour to ask me to marry you I should have refused you on the spot.'
'Ah, you don't esteem me then. Say at once that you think me a mere Parisian trifler!'
'I esteem you very much, but I'm not in love with you. What I mean by that, of course, is that I'm not in love with you for Pansy.'
'Very good; I see. You pity me—that's all.' And Edward Rosier looked all round, inconsequently, with his single glass. It was a revelation to him that people shouldn't be more pleased; but he was at least too proud to show that the deficiency struck him as general.
Isabel for a moment said nothing. His manner and appearance had not the dignity of the deepest tragedy; his little glass, among other things, was against that. But she suddenly felt touched; her own unhappiness, after all, had something in common with his, and it came over her, more than before, that here, in recognisable, if not in romantic form, was the most affecting thing in the world—young love struggling with adversity. 'Would you really be very kind to her?' she finally asked in a low tone.
He dropped his eyes devoutly and raised the little flower that he held in his fingers to his lips. Then he looked at her. 'You pity me; but don't you pity HER a little?'
'I don't know; I'm not sure. She'll always enjoy life.'
'It will depend on what you call life!' Mr. Rosier effectively said. 'She won't enjoy being tortured.'
'There'll be nothing of that.'
'I'm glad to hear it. She knows what she's about. You'll see.'
'I think she does, and she'll never disobey her father. But she's coming back to me,' Isabel added, 'and I must beg you to go away.'
Rosier lingered a moment till Pansy came in sight on the arm of her cavalier; he stood just long enough to look her in the face. Then he walked away, holding up his head; and the manner in which he achieved this sacrifice to expediency convinced Isabel he was very much in love.
Pansy, who seldom got disarranged in dancing, looking perfectly fresh and cool after this exercise, waited a moment and then took back her bouquet. Isabel watched her and saw she was counting the flowers; whereupon she said to herself that decidedly there were deeper forces at play than she had recognised. Pansy had seen Rosier turn away, but she said nothing to Isabel about him; she talked only of her partner, after he had made his bow and retired; of the music, the floor, the rare misfortune of having already torn her dress. Isabel was sure, however, she had discovered her lover to have abstracted a flower; though this knowledge was not needed to account for the dutiful grace with which she responded to the appeal of her next partner. That perfect amenity under acute constraint was part of a larger system. She was again led forth by a flushed young man, this time carrying her bouquet; and she had not been absent many minutes when Isabel saw Lord Warburton advancing through the crowd. He presently drew near and bade her good-evening; she had not seen him since the day before. He looked about him, and then 'Where's the little maid?' he asked. It was in this manner that he had formed the harmless habit of alluding to Miss Osmond.
'She's dancing,' said Isabel. 'You'll see her somewhere.'
He looked among the dancers and at last caught Pansy's eye. 'She sees me, but she won't notice me,' he then remarked. 'Are you not dancing?'
'As you see, I'm a wall-flower.'
'Won't you dance with me?'
'Thank you; I'd rather you should dance with the little maid.'
'One needn't prevent the other—especially as she's engaged.'
'She's not engaged for everything, and you can reserve yourself. She dances very hard, and you'll be the fresher.'
'She dances beautifully,' said Lord Warburton, following her with his eyes. 'Ah, at last,' he added, 'she has given me a smile.' He stood there with his handsome, easy, important physiognomy; and as Isabel observed him it came over her, as it had done before, that it was strange a man of his mettle should take an interest in a little maid. It struck her as a great incongruity; neither Pansy's small fascinations, nor his own kindness, his good-nature, not even his need for amusement, which was extreme and constant, were sufficient to account for it. 'I should like to dance with you,' he went on in a moment, turning back to Isabel; 'but I think I like even better to talk with you.'
'Yes, it's better, and it's more worthy of your dignity. Great statesmen oughtn't to waltz.'
'Don't be cruel. Why did you recommend me then to dance with Miss Osmond?'
'Ah, that's different. If you danced with her it would look simply like a piece of kindness—as if you were doing it for her amusement. If you dance with me you'll look as if you were doing it for your own.'
'And pray haven't I a right to amuse myself?'
'No, not with the affairs of the British Empire on your hands.'
'The British Empire be hanged! You're always laughing at it.'
'Amuse yourself with talking to me,' said Isabel.
'I'm not sure it's really a recreation. You're too pointed; I've always to be defending myself. And you strike me as more than usually dangerous to-night. Will you absolutely not dance?'
