straight to the piano, her fingers just touching Sir Edwin's offered arm;
that she had seated herself, and begun mechanically to take off her
gloves, without one single word having been exchanged between them.

The young man took his place behind her chair. She never looked
toward him--never paused to think how he had come there, or to
wonder over the easy conscience of the world, which had readmitted
him into the very society whence he had lately been ignominiously
expelled. Her sole thought was that there was a song to be sung and
she had to sing it, and go back as fast as she could into some safe
hiding-place. Having accomplished this, she rose.

"Not yet, pray; one more song. Surely you know it--'Love in thine
eyes.'"

As the voice behind her--a voice so horribly familiar, said this,
Christian turned round. To ignore him was impossible; to betray, by
the slightest sign, the quiver of fear, of indignation, which ran through
all her frame, that, too, was equally impossible. One thing only
presented itself to her as to be done. She lifted up her cold, clear eyes,
fixed them on him, and equally cold and clear her few commonplace
words fell:

"No, I thank you; I prefer not to sing any more to-night." What answer
was made, or how, still touching Sir Edwin's arm, she was piloted back
through the crowd to Miss Gascoigne's side, Christian had not the
slightest recollection either then afterward; she only knew that she did
it, and he did it, and that he then bowed politely and left her.

So it was all over. They had met, she and her sometime lover, her