He had a long sweep of black lash, through which the clear blue of his
eyes had a way of shining with a pleading, softening lustre, immensely
effective. It was an accepted fact that when Mr. Dartmouth turned
on this battery of eyes and lash, resistance was a forgotten art and
protest a waste of time. Miss Penrhyn did not prove an exception to
the rule. She hesitated, then answered, with a little laugh, as if
amused at herself, "Well, yes, I am sure."

"Very well, then, remember, I look upon that as a promise. And I will
try to get a word with you later, but there is no hope now."

He moved off and, leaning against the opposite wall, covertly watched
her, while ostensibly listening with due sympathy to the hopes and
fears of an old friend and embryo author. In a moment he made a
discovery--of his friend's confidence I regret to say he heard not one
word--she did not treat him as she treated other men. Well bred as she
was, there was a perceptible embarrassment in her manner whenever he
addressed her, but with these other men she was talking and smiling
without a trace of effort or restraint. He knew what it meant. He was
thoroughly aware that he was a man of extraordinary magnetism, and he
had seen his power over a great many women. Ordinarily, to a man so
sated with easy success as Harold Dartmouth, the certainty of conquest
would have strangled the fancy, but there was something about this
girl which awakened in him an interest he did not pretend to define,
except that he found her more beautiful, and believed her to be
more original, than other women. He was anxious to have a longer
conversation with her, and ascertain whether or not he was correct in
his latter supposition. He did not want to marry, and she was too
good to flirt with, but platonics were left. And platonics with Miss
Penrhyn suggested variety.