For a moment he did not speak; under his bronzed cheek the flat muscles stirred. Had some meddling, malicious fool ventured to whisper an unfit jest to this young girl? Had a word--or a smile and a phrase cut in two--awakened her to a sorry wisdom at his expense? Something had happened; and the idea stirred him to wrath--as when a child is wantonly frightened or a dumb creature misused. "What did you ask me?" he inquired gently. "I asked you who was there, Captain Selwyn." He recalled some names, and laughingly mentioned his dinner partner's preference for Harmon. She listened absently, her chin nestling in her palm, only the close-set, perfect ear turned toward him. "Who led the cotillion?" he asked. "Jack Ruthven--dancing with Rosamund Fane." She drew her feet from the fender and crossed them, still turned away from him; and so they remained in silence until again she shifted her position, almost impatiently. "You are very tired," he said. "No; wide awake." "Don't you think it best for you to go to bed?" "No. But you may go." And, as he did not stir: "I mean that you are not to sit here because I do." And she looked around at him. "What has gone wrong, Eileen?" he said quietly. He had never before used her given name, and she flushed up. "There is nothing the matter, Captain Selwyn. Why do you ask?" "Yes, there is," he said. "There is not, I tell you--" "--And, if it is something you cannot understand," he continued pleasantly, "perhaps it might be well to ask Nina to explain it to you." "There is nothing to explain." "--Because," he went on, very gently, "one is sometimes led by malicious suggestion to draw false and unpleasant inferences from harmless facts--" "Captain Selwyn--" "Yes, Eileen." But she could not go on; speech and thought itself remained sealed; only a confused consciousness of being hurt remained--somehow to be remedied by something he might say--might deny. Yet how could it help her for him to deny what she herself refused to believe?--refused through sheer instinct while ignorant of its meaning. Even if he had done what she heard Rosamund Fane say he had done, it had remained meaningless to her save for the manner of the telling. But now--but now! Why had they laughed--why had their attitudes and manner and the disconnected phrases in French left her flushed and rigid among the idle group at supper? Why had they suddenly seemed to remember her presence--and express their abrupt consciousness of it in such furtive signals and silence? It was false, anyway--whatever it meant. And, anyway, it was false that he had driven away in Mrs. Ruthven's brougham. But, oh, if he had only stayed--if he had only remained!--this friend of hers who had been so nice to her from the moment he came into her life--so generous, so considerate, so lovely to her--and to Gerald!