"Of course. You shall have a lesson to-night--when we get back from the
Burtons' dinner. I'm real sorry you were bored, Billikins. You shan't be
again."

That was her attitude always, half-maternal, half-quizzing, as if
something about him amused her; yet always anxious to please him, always
ready to set his wishes before her own, so long as he did not attempt to
treat her seriously. She had left all that was serious in that other
life that had ended with the fall of the safety-curtain on a certain
night in England many æons ago. Her personality now was light as
gossamer, irresponsible as thistledown. The deeper things of life passed
her by. She seemed wholly unaware of them.

"You'll be quite an accomplished dancer by the time everyone comes back
from the Hills," she remarked, balancing a fork on one slender brown
finger. "We'll have a ball for two--every night."

"We!" said Merryon.

She glanced at him.

"I said 'we.'"

"I know you did." The man's voice had suddenly a dogged ring; he looked
across at the vivid, piquant face with the suggestion of a frown between
his eyes.

"Don't do that!" she said, lightly. "Never do that, Billikins! It's
most unbecoming behaviour. What's the matter?"