"Mistress Betty," said Geoffrey Yorke, under cover of sipping a glass of
port wine which she had offered him, "I drink to your very good health;"
then softly, "I have not seen you for a week; have you been quite well
since the Christmas party?"
"Is it so long?"--willfully; "Clarissa said you called one day."
"Surely--to ask for you, and you never came inside the room."
"Because I was busy, sir," replied Betty. Then relenting as a swift
remembrance crossed her mind, "I was skating at the Collect, where I
went with Peter late in the day."
"Will you dance with me to-night at the ball--promise me all the dances
you can possibly spare?" and Geoffrey's voice took its most tender tone
as he fixed his eyes on Betty's charming face.
"All my dances? Nay, two, possibly three, are as many as Clarissa would
deem consistent with good manners," returned the maid, unable to forego
the pleasure of teasing him; "indeed, I am bewildered even now
remembering sundry engagements already made."
"The first dance, Betty," said Yorke pleadingly, as he saw the general
taking leave, and prepared to accompany him. "Surely you will not deny
me that grace?"
But Betty only gave him the tips of her fingers in reply as she swept a
graceful courtesy.
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