In the latter part of the night’s delight, when time and practice had made them all happy together, John Eames stood up for the first time to dance with Lily.  She had done all she could, short of asking him, to induce him to do her this favour; for she felt that it would be a favour.  How great had been the desire on his part to ask her, and, at the same time, how great the repugnance, Lily, perhaps, did not quite understand.  And yet she understood much of it.  She knew that he was not angry with her.  She knew that he was suffering from the injured pride of futile love, almost as much as from the futile love itself.  She wished to put him at his ease in this; but she did not quite give him credit for the full sincerity, and the upright, uncontrolled heartiness of his feelings.

At length he did come up to her, and though, in truth, she was engaged, she at once accepted his offer.  Then she tripped across the room.  “Adolphus,” she said, “I can’t dance with you, though I said I would.  John Eames has asked me, and I haven’t stood up with him before.  You understand, and you’ll be a good boy, won’t you?”

Crosbie, not being in the least jealous, was a good boy, and sat himself down to rest, hidden behind a door.

For the first few minutes the conversation between Eames and Lily was of a very matter-of-fact kind.  She repeated her wish that she might see him in London, and he said that of course he should come and call.  Then there was silence for a little while, and they went through their figure dancing.

“I don’t at all know yet when we are to be married,” said Lily, as soon as they were again standing together.

“No; I dare say not,” said Eames.

“But not this year, I suppose.  Indeed, I should say, of course not.”

“In the spring, perhaps,” suggested Eames.  He had an unconscious desire that it might be postponed to some Greek kalends, and yet he did not wish to injure Lily.

“The reason I mention it is this, that we should be so very glad if you could be here.  We all love you so much, and I should so like to have you here on that day.”

Why is it that girls so constantly do this,—­so frequently ask men who have loved them to be present at their marriages with other men?  There is no triumph in it.  It is done in sheer kindness and affection.  They intend to offer something which shall soften and not aggravate the sorrow that they have caused.  “You can’t marry me yourself,” the lady seems to say.  “But the next greatest blessing which I can offer you shall be yours;—­you shall see me married to somebody else.”  I fully appreciate the intention, but in honest truth, I doubt the eligibility of the proffered entertainment.

On the present occasion John Eames seemed to be of this opinion, for he did not at once accept the invitation.

“Will you not oblige me so far as that?” she said softly.

“I would do anything to oblige you,” said he gruffly; “almost anything.”