"Of course I am quite aware you can be supremely happy without me. There was no necessity for you to hint at it so broadly." "And you _cannot_ without _me_, I suppose? You appeared very comfortable in the conservatory some time ago." "Did I" with a quick return of the angry expression he had then worn. "My face belied me then. I could hardly feel comfortable when I saw you laying yourself open to the ill-natured comments of the entire room." "What do you mean Marmaduke?" "You know what I mean. Is it the correct thing to dance the whole evening with one man!" "What man?" "Gore, of course. Every one remarked it. I wish you would try to be a little more dignified, and remember how censorious is the world in which we are living." "Do you want me to understand that _you_ think I was _flirting_ with Sir Mark Gore?" I am literally trembling with indignation. "No, I merely wish you to see how foolishly you have acted." "Was it with such base insinuations against your wife Lady Blanche amused you to night? Do you think it was becoming conduct on your part to listen to such lies being uttered without rebuke?" I have risen, and, with folded hands and white lips, am looking down upon him. "Phyllis! How can you suppose that I would listen calmly to _any one_ who could speak evil of _you?_" "I can readily suppose anything after what you have said. Is it not worse of _you_ to _think_ evil of me? _Flirting!_ _You_ beyond all people are in a position to acquit me of that. I had plenty of opportunities: did I ever flirt with you?" "You did not, indeed. I tell you I don't for a moment suspect you of such a thing; only---" Here, looking up, we both became aware of Sir Mark's approach. He is still some distance from us. "Are you engaged to him for this, Phyllis?" asks my husband, in a low hurried tone. "Yes." "Don't dance it, then," imploringly. "Say you will not, if only to oblige me." "Why? What excuse can I offer? You ask me to be rude to him, and yet give no reason why I should be so." "You intend dancing it with him then?" sternly. "Certainly," in a freezing tone. "Very good. Do so." And, turning on his heel, he walks quietly and slowly away. "I fear I have displaced a better man," says Sir Mark, lightly, as he joins me. "Will you forgive me? I could not resist reminding you of your promise of this." "I fear I must undo that promise," I return, gayly. "I am really fatigued. To dance with me now would be no advantage to any one." "Am I to thank Carrington for this disappointment? Was he fearful of your being over-tired?" He is courteous as ever, yet it seems to me the very faintest suspicion of a sneer comes to his lips--so faint that a moment later I doubt it has ever been.