e shortly)--"I might have danced, if I had
liked: it is not for want of asking"--(with a little childish
vanity)--"but I do not wish."

"Do not you mean to dance any more this evening, then?"

"I do not know; that is as may be!"

I have almost turned my back upon him, and my eyes are following--not
perhaps quite without a movement of envy--my various acquaintances,
scampering, coupled in mad embraces. I think that he is gone, but I am
mistaken.

"Will you at least let me take you in to supper?" in a tone whose
formality is strongly dashed with resentment.

I wish that I did not know his voice so hatefully well: all its
intonations and inflections are as familiar to me as Roger's.

"I do not want any supper," I answer, petulantly, turning the back of my
head and all my powdered curls toward him; "I never eat supper at a
ball; I like to stand here; I like to watch the people--to watch
Barbara!"

This at least is true. To see Barbara dance has always given, and does
even now give, me the liveliest satisfaction. No one holds her head so
prettily as Barbara; no one moves so smoothly, and with so absolutely
innocent a gayety. The harshest, prudishest adversary of valsing, were
he to see Barbara valse, would be converted to thinking it the most
modest of dances. Mr. Musgrave is turning away. Just as he is doing so,
an idea strikes me. Perhaps they are in the supper-room.

"After all," say I, unceremoniously, and forgetting for the moment who
it is that I am addressing, "I do not mind if I do have something;
I--I--am rather hungry."

I put my hand on his arm, and we walk off.

The supper-room is rather full--(when, indeed, was a supper-room known
to be empty?)--some people are sitting--some standing--it is therefore a
little difficult to make out who is here, and who is not. In total
absolute forgetfulness of the supposed cause that has brought me here, I
stand eagerly staring about, under people's arms--over their shoulders.
So far, I do not see them. I am recalled by Mr. Musgrave's voice, coldly
polite.

"Will not you sit down?"

"No, thank you," reply I, bending my neck back to get a view behind an
intervening group; "I had rather stand."

"Are you looking for any one?"

Again, I wish that I did not know his voice so well--that I did not so
clearly recognize that slightly guardedly malicious intonation.

"Looking for any one?" I cry, sharply, and reddening even through my
rouge--"of course not!--whom shou