"Marian...?" he called in a voice meant to be ingratiating.
"Well?" the girl demanded harshly.
"I thought I saw you," he commented blandly, advancing a pace and so
coming face to face with the bristling little Mephistophelean figure,
which he had endeavoured to ignore.
"My dance, I believe," he added a trace more brusquely, over the
little man's head.
"I must ask you to excuse me," said the girl coldly.
"You don't care to dance again to-night?"
"Thank you--no."
"Then I will give myself the pleasure of sitting it out with you."
"I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me, Bayard," she returned,
consistently inflexible.
He hesitated. "Do I understand you're ready for me to take you home?"
"You're to understand that I will neither dance nor sit out the dance
with you--and that I don't wish to be disturbed."
"Bless your heart!" P. Sybarite interjected privately.
The voice of the younger Shaynon broke with passion.
"This is--the limit!" he cried violently. "I've reached the end of my
endurance. Who's this creature you're with?"
"Is your memory so short?" P. Sybarite asked quietly. "Have you
forgotten the microbe?--the little guy who puts the point in
disappointment?"
"I've forgotten nothing, you--animal! Nor that you insulted my father
publicly only a few minutes ago, you--"
"That is something that takes a bit of doing, too!" affirmed P.
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