This movement for the sake of being in sight of her was more direct than usual rather late in the evening, when Gwendolen had accepted Klesmer as a partner; and that wide-glancing personage, who saw everything and nothing by turns, said to her when they were walking, “Mr. Grandcourt is a man of taste. He likes to see you dancing.” “Perhaps he likes to look at what is against his taste,” said Gwendolen, with a light laugh; she was quite courageous with Klesmer now. “He may be so tired of admiring that he likes disgust for variety.” “Those words are not suitable to your lips,” said Klesmer, quickly, with one of his grand frowns, while he shook his hand as if to banish the discordant sounds. “Are you as critical of words as of music?” “Certainly I am. I should require your words to be what your face and form are—always among the meanings of a noble music.” “That is a compliment as well as a correction. I am obliged for both. But do you know I am bold enough to wish to correct _you_, and require you to understand a joke?” “One may understand jokes without liking them,” said the terrible Klesmer. “I have had opera books sent me full of jokes; it was just because I understood them that I did not like them. The comic people are ready to challenge a man because he looks grave. ‘You don’t see the witticism, sir?’ ‘No, sir, but I see what you meant.’ Then I am what we call ticketed as a fellow without _esprit_. But, in fact,” said Klesmer, suddenly dropping from his quick narrative to a reflective tone, with an impressive frown, “I am very sensible to wit and humor.” “I am glad you tell me that,” said Gwendolen, not without some wickedness of intention. But Klesmer’s thoughts had flown off on the wings of his own statement, as their habit was, and she had the wickedness all to herself. “Pray, who is that standing near the card-room door?” she went on, seeing there the same stranger with whom Klesmer had been in animated talk on the archery ground. “He is a friend of yours, I think.” “No, no; an amateur I have seen in town; Lush, a Mr. Lush—too fond of Meyerbeer and Scribe—too fond of the mechanical-dramatic.” “Thanks. I wanted to know whether you thought his face and form required that his words should be among the meanings of noble music?” Klesmer was conquered, and flashed at her a delightful smile which made them quite friendly until she begged to be deposited by the side of her mamma. Three minutes afterward her preparations for Grandcourt’s indifference were all canceled. Turning her head after some remark to her mother, she found that he had made his way up to her. “May I ask if you are tired of dancing, Miss Harleth?” he began, looking down with his former unperturbed expression. “Not in the least.” “Will you do me the honor—the next—or another quadrille?”