“The trouble with you is that women take to you very quickly, and you are always trying to see how far you can arouse their interest.  What’s the use of risking heartaches to satisfy curiosity?”

“Oh, I don’t have heartaches!” said Dysart, intensely amused.

“I wasn’t thinking of you.  I suppose that’s the reason you find it amusing....  Not that I think there’s any real harm in you——­”

“Thanks,” laughed Dysart; “it only needed that remark to damn me utterly.  Now go and dance with little Miss Seagrave, and don’t worry about my trying to interfere.”

Grandcourt looked sullenly at him.  “I’m sorry I spoke, now,” he said.  “I never know enough to hold my tongue to you.”

He turned bulkily on his heel and left the dining-hall.  There were others, in throngs, leaving—­young, eager-faced fellows, with a scattering of the usual “dancing” men on whom everybody could always count, and a few middle-aged gentlemen and women of the younger married set to give stability to what was, otherwise, a debutante’s affair.

Dysart, strolling about, booked a dance or two, performed creditably, made his peace, for the sake of peace, with Sylvia Quest, whose ignorant heart had been partly awakened under his idle investigations.  But this was Sylvia’s second season, and she would no doubt learn several things of which she heretofore had been unaware.  Just at present, however, her heart was very full, and life’s outlook was indeed tragic to a young girl who believed herself wildly in love with a married man, and who employed all her unhappy wits in the task of concealing it.

A load of guilt lay upon her soul; the awful fact that she adored him frightened her terribly; that she could not keep away from him terrified her still more.  But most of all she dreaded that he might guess her secret.

“I don’t know why you thought I minded your not—­not talking to me during dinner,” she faltered.  “I was having a perfectly heavenly time with Peter Tappan.”

“Do you mean that?” murmured Dysart.  He could not help playing his part, even when it no longer interested him.  To murmur was as natural to him as to breathe.

She looked up piteously.  “I would rather have talked to you,” she said.  “Peter Tappan is only an overgrown boy.  If you had really cared to talk to me—­” She checked herself, flushing deeply.

O Lord! he thought, contemplating in the girl’s lifted eyes the damage he had not really expected to do.  For it had, as usual, surprised him to realise, too late, how dangerous it is to say too much, and look too long, and how easy it is to awaken hearts asleep.

Dancing was to be general before the cotillion.  Sylvia would have given him as many dances as he asked for; he danced once with her as a great treat, resolving never to experiment any more with anybody....  True, it might have been amusing to see how far he could have interested the little Seagrave girl—­but he would renounce that; he’d keep away from everybody.