"I don't want to be a 'thing,' however precious," said Miss Firs-Robinson, with decision. "I should much rather be a 'person,' for choice, however criminal it sounds. It only wants 'age' put to it to be magnificent. And so you call Mr. Blount 'a person'?"
"Perhaps I was wrong," said Ambert contemptuously; "a 'beggar' would be nearer the mark."
CHAPTER V
Meanwhile Agatha was left standing near the doorway, whilst her chaperon was explaining the reason of her late arrival to old Miss Firs-Robinson, Elfrida's aunt.
The girl's eyes were directed towards the dancers, and so absorbed was her gaze that she started visibly when a voice sounded at her elbow—that hated voice!
"May I have the pleasure of this waltz, Miss Nesbitt?"
Agatha looked up. Dr. Darkham, tall, handsome, almost young, was standing beside her.
"I am sorry—but the dance is promised," said Agatha, gently but coldly.
"I am unfortunate." He looked keenly at her, with open question in his eyes. He had educated himself very carefully on the lines of social etiquette; but education of that sort, unless it comes by nature, is often defective and sometimes he forgot. It did not now suggest itself to him that to question Agatha's word, whether that word were true or false, was a bêtise. Some men had come up to ask, Agatha for a dance, and when they were gone he spoke.
"It is promised, then?" he said. "And yet you have only just come?"
Agatha looked at him for a moment as if surprised.
"It is promised," she said again.
She made no attempt to explain herself. Her manner, however, was very quiet, although her face was set and her tone frozen.
Suddenly, however, her expression changed. It lit up with a happy fervour, and her eyes shone. They were looking past Dr. Darkham's towards something beyond, and the latter, as though unable to control his longing to learn the cause of this sweet change in the lovely face before him, turned to follow her glance, and saw over there, making anxious efforts to reach her, a young man rather above middle height, with a face that, if not strictly handsome, was at all events extremely good to look at.
It was Dillwyn, the young doctor who had lately come into the neighbourhood, and who was beginning to do pretty well with a certain class of patients. Not the better classes; those belonged almost exclusively to Darkham.
Dillwyn was still a long way off, hemmed in by a crowd of skirts that now, being a little stiffened at the tail, took up a considerable amount of room and were not easily passed. There was still a moment or two before he could reach Agatha. Darkham caught his opportunity and turned hurriedly to her.
"I hope you will give me a dance later on?" he said, with a dogged sort of determination. He saw that she did not wish to dance with him, but the knowledge only served to strengthen his desire to dance with her; yet he did not ask her for the next dance. An almost mad longing to waltz with her, to hold her in his arms for even a few minutes, to feel her hand in his, took possession of him. He would risk it.
"If the first supper dance is not engaged, may I hope for that?" he said, his voice quite even, his heart beating wildly.
"I am afraid I have promised that, too," said Agatha, who had not promised it, but she felt driven to desperation. Her voice was low and tremulous. What was it about him that repelled her so? She could not, she would not dance with him, whatever came of it.
Darkham bowed and drew back, leaning against the wall just behind her. She felt miserable, and yet thankful, that she could no longer see him. Yet she knew he was behind her, watching her; and she had been rude—certainly, very rude.
At that moment Mrs. Poynter joined her.
"Not a partner yet? I suppose you must wait for this dance to be over? Ah! here I see Dr. Dillwyn coming towards us. You know, Agatha dearest, that he is a cousin of mine, and quite good family and all that."
Agatha laughed.
"Yes, yes; you ought to take it that way. It really should not be serious," said Mrs. Poynter, who was a young woman and fond of Agatha, and thought the girl with her charming face ought to make a good match. "I am so glad you are not going to be serious over it, because, really, it would be a terrible throwing away of yourself."
"But Mrs. Poynter—"
"Yes, of course. He hasn't proposed, you mean; but—I really wish he had not been placed here through the influence of old Mrs. Greatorex, Reginald Greatorex. The old gentleman might just as well have sent him anywhere else, and he does run after you a good deal, Agatha, doesn't he now?"
"I never saw him run in my life," said Agatha demurely.
"Ah, there! I see you are evading the subject. And here he comes. Now Agatha, be careful; you know—"
"Yes; I know, I know," said Agatha, smiling at her. Yet she hardly heard her; her eyes and thoughts were for the young man who was standing before her.
Neither of them saw the face behind them—the face of the man leaning against the wall!
CHAPTER VI
"At last!" said John Dillwyn. "You have not given it away? You have remembered?"
"The dance?"
"Yes. You know you said you would give me the first on your arrival."
"But this! I am so late! I could not have expected you to wait—"
"I have waited, however. And it is mine?" He was now looking at her anxiously. What did her manner, her hesitation, mean?
"Yes, of course, but have you no partner?"
"I have, indeed"—laughing. "One I would not readily change. I have you."
"But," looking up at him a little shyly after this plain speech, "how did you arrange it?"
"Very simply. This will be my first waltz as well a yours."
"Oh, that is too bad of you," said the girl, colouring softly. She meant to be angry with him, perhaps; but if so, the effort was a dead failure. The corners of her lips were smiling, and a happy light had crept into her eyes. "To wait so long, and—"
"It was long. I admit that," interrupted he, smiling. "I thought you would never come."
"It was all Mrs. Poynter's fault," said Agatha. "And really, but for me I am sure she would not be here even now."
"Well, come on, now; let us get even a turn or two," said Dillwyn. "By the bye, the next—is that free?"
"Yes," said Agatha. She felt a little frightened. She hoped he would not know she had kept it free purposely. Four or five men had asked her for dances whilst she stood near the door on her arrival with Mrs. Poynter, and when giving them a dance here and there she had steadily refused to part with the next one. She did not tell herself why at the moment, but she knew all the same.
"May I have it?" asked Dillwyn, with such a delightful anxiety that all at once her mind was set at rest.
He suspected nothing, thought of nothing but his fear that the dance might have been given away before he could ask her for it. Oh, how dear he was! Was there ever any one so good, so perfect?
He passed his arm round her waist,