At this Dorian makes one step forward, as though to protest against something,--some iniquity done; but, a sudden thought striking him, he draws back, and, bringing his teeth upon his under lip with some force, turns abruptly away. When next he looks in her direction, he finds both Georgie and her partner have disappeared.
The night wanes. Already the "keen stars that falter never" are dropping, one by one, to slumber, perfect and serene. Diana, tired of her ceaseless watch, is paling, fading, dying imperceptibly, as though feeling herself soon to be conquered by the sturdy morn.
Dorian, who has held himself carefully aloof from Miss Broughton ever since that last scene, when she had shown herself so unmindful of him and his just claim to the dance then on the cards, now, going up to her, says, coldly,--
"I think the next is our dance, Miss Broughton."
Georgie, who is laughing gayly with Mr. Kennedy, turns her face to his, some surprise mixed with the sweetness of her regard. Never before has he addressed her in such a tone.
"Is it?" she says, gently. "I had forgotten; but of course my card will tell."
"One often forgets, and one's card doesn't always tell," replies he, with a smile tinctured with bitterness.
She opens her eyes, and stares at him blankly. There is some balm in Gilead, he tells himself, as he sees she is totally unaware of his meaning. Perhaps, after all, she _did_ forget about that tenth dance, and did not purposely fling him over for the man now beside her, who is grinning at her in a supremely idiotic fashion. How he hates a fellow who simpers straight through everything, and looks always as if the world and he were eternally at peace!
She flushes softly,--a gentle, delicate flush, born of distress, coldness from even an ordinary friend striking like ice upon her heart. She looks at her card confusedly.
"Yes, the next is ours," she says, without raising her eyes; and then the band begins again, and Dorian feels her hand upon his arm, and Kennedy bows disconsolately and disappears amid the crowd.
"Do you particularly want to dance this?" asks Dorian, with an effort.
"Will you come out into the gardens instead? I want--I must speak to you."
"You may speak to me here, or in the garden, or any where," says Georgie, rather frightened by the vehemence of his tone.