"My mother says things," he explained patiently; "nobody minds 'em.... Shall we exchange nonsense--or would you rather save yourself until dinner?" "Save myself what?" she asked nervously. "The nuisance of talking to me about nothing. I'm not clever." Geraldine reddened. "I don't usually talk about nothing." "I do," he said. "I never have much to say." "Is that because you don't like debutantes?" she asked coldly. "It's because they don't care about me.... If you would talk to me, I'd really be grateful." He flushed and stepped back awkwardly to allow room for a slim, handsome man to pass between them. The very ornamental man did not pass, however, but calmly turned toward Geraldine, and began to talk to her. She presently discovered his name to be Dysart; and she also discovered that Mr. Dysart didn't know her name; and, for a moment after she had told him, surprise and a confused sense of resentment silenced her, because she was quite certain now that they had never been properly presented. That negligence of conventions was not unusual in this new world she was entering, she had already noticed; and this incident was evidently another example of custom smilingly ignored. She looked up questioningly, and Dysart, instantly divining the trouble, laughed in his easy, attractive fashion--the fashion he usually affected with women. "You seemed so fresh and cool and sweet all alone in this hot corner that I simply couldn't help coming over to hear whether your voice matched the ensemble. And it surpasses it. Are you going to be resentful?" "I'm too ignorant to be--or to laugh about it as you do.... Is it because I look a simpleton that you come to see if I really am?" "Are you planning to punish me, Miss Seagrave?" "I'm afraid I don't know how." "Fate will, anyway, unless I am placed next you at dinner," he said with his most reassuring smile, and rose gracefully. "I'm going to fix it," he added, and, pushing his way toward his hostess, disappeared in the crush. Later young Grandcourt reappeared from the crush to take her in. Every table seated eight, and, sure enough, as she turned involuntarily to glance at her neighbour on the right, it was Dysart's pale face, cleanly cut as a cameo, that met her gaze. He nodded back to her with unfeigned satisfaction at his own success. "That's the way to manage," he said, "when you want a thing very much. Isn't it, Miss Seagrave?" "You did not ask me whether I wanted it," she said. "Don't you want me here? If you don't--" His features fell and he made a pretence of rising. His pale, beautifully sculptured face had become so fearfully serious that she coloured up quickly. "Oh, you _wouldn't_ do such a thing--now! to embarrass me." "Yes, I would--I'd do anything desperate." But she had already caught the flash of mischief, and realising that he had been taking more or less for granted in tormenting her, looked down at her plate and presently tasted what was on it.