. Am I not giving it?" says Georgie,
bewildered, her eyes gleaming, large and troubled, in the white light
that illumines the sleeping world. "It is your fault that we are not
dancing now. I, for my part, would much rather be inside, with the
music, than out here with you, when you talk so unkindly."

"I have no doubt you would rather be anywhere than with me," says
Dorian, hastily; "and of course this new friend is intensely
interesting."

"At least he is not rude," says Miss Broughton, calmly, plucking a
pale green branch from a laurestinus near her.

"I am perfectly convinced he is one of the few faultless people upon
earth," says Branscombe, now in a white heat of fury. "I shouldn't
dream of aspiring to his level. But yet I think you needn't have given
him the dance you promised me."

"I didn't," says Miss Broughton, indignantly, in all good faith.

"You mean to tell me you hadn't given me the tenth dance half an hour
before?"

"The tenth! You might as well speak about the hundred and tenth! If it
wasn't on my card how could I remember it?"

"But it was on your card: I wrote it down myself."

"I am sure you are making a mistake," says Miss Broughton, mildly;
though in her present frame of mind, I think she would have dearly
liked to tell him he is lying.

"Then show me your card. If I have blundered in this matter I shall go
on my knees to beg your pardon."

"I don't want you on your knees,"--pettishly. "I detest a man on his
knees, he always looks so silly. As for my card,"--grandly,--"here it
is."

Dorian, taking it, opens it, and, running his eyes down the small
columns, stops short at number ten. There, sure enough, is "D. B." in
very large capitals indeed.

"You see," he says, feeling himself, as he says it, slightly
ungenerous.

"I am very sorry," says Miss Broughton, standing far away from him,
and with a little quiver in her tone. "I have behaved badly, I now
see. But I did not mean it." She has grown very pale; her eyes are
dilating; her rounded arms, soft and fair and lovable as a little
child's, are gleaming snow-white against the background of shining
laurel leaves that are glittering behind her in the moonlight. Her
voice is quiet, but her eyes are full of angry tears, and her small
gloved hands clasp and unclasp each other nervously.

"You have proved me in the wrong," she goes on, with a very poor
attempt at coolness, "and, of course, justice is on your side. And you
are quite righ