“Now, Adelaide, you are getting cross,” he said.

“No, I am not in the least cross,” she answered with her sweetest smile.  “I have a clear conscience—­no self-reproaches to make me vexed.  It is only those who do wrong that lose their tempers.  I know nothing better for good-humor than a good conscience.”

“What a pretty little sermon! almost as good as one of the Reverend Alexander’s, whose sport, by the way, I shall go and spoil.”

“I never knew you cruel before,” said Adelaide quietly.  “Why should you destroy the poor fellow’s happiness, as well as Leam’s chances, for a mere passing whim?  You surely are not going to repeat with the daughter the father’s original mistake with the mother?”

She spoke with the utmost contempt that she could manifest.  At all events, if Edgar married Leam Dundas, she would have her soul clear.  He should never be able to say that he had gone over the edge of the precipice unwarned.  She at least would be faithful, and would show him how unworthy his choice was.

“Well, I don’t know,” he drawled.  “Do you think she would have me if I asked her?”

“Edgar!” cried Adelaide reproachfully.  “You are untrue to yourself when you speak in that manner to me—­I, who am your best friend.  You have no one who cares so truly, so unselfishly, for your happiness and honor as I do.”

She began with reproach, but she ended with tenderness; and Edgar, who was wax in the hands of a pretty woman, was touched.  “Good, dear Adelaide!” he said with fervor and quite naturally, “you are one of the best girls in the world.  But I must go and speak to Miss Dundas, I have neglected her so abominably all the evening.”

On which, as if to prevent any reply, he turned away, and the next moment was standing by Leam sitting in the window-seat half concealed by the curtain, Alick paying awkward homage as his manner was.

Leam gave the faintest little start, that was more a shiver than a start, as he came up.  She turned her tragic eyes to him with dumb reproach; but if she was sorrowful she was not craven, and though she meant him to see that she disapproved of his neglect—­which had indeed been too evident to be ignored—­she did not want him to think that she was unhappy because of it.

“Are you not dancing, Miss Dundas?” asked Edgar as gravely as if he was putting a bona fide question.

“No,” said Leam—­thinking to herself, “Even he can ask silly questions.”

“Why not?  Are you tired?”

“Yes,” answered laconic Leam with a little sigh.

“I am afraid you are bored, and that you do not like balls,” he said with false sympathy, but real love, sorry to see the weariness of face and spirit which he had not been sorry to cause.

“I am bored, and I do not like balls,” she answered, her directness in nowise softened out of regard for Edgar as the giver of the feast or for Alick as her companion.