"What proof have you of the truth of this story?" inquired Trenchard. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. He'll mend, I hope. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. His attitude toward her was purely intellectual, free of any sentimentality, utterly selfish. Her eyes were perhaps a little brighter than usual, the firelight played about her hair, there seemed to him to be a sudden softening of the straight firm mouth. Fearful that she had given herself away, she sank back down onto her stool. Not then. Jack appealed to the new auditors, and again detailed his story, but with no better success than heretofore.
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