expression
than triumph that so darkly shines in his great and eager eyes.

"You _knew_ they were there!" I cry in a whisper of passionate
resentment, snatching my hand from his arm; "you brought me here _on
purpose_!"

Then, regardless of appearances, I turn quickly away, and walk back down
the passage alone!

CHAPTER XLVII.

This is how the ball ends for me. As soon as I am out of sight, I
quicken my walk into a run, and, flying up the stairs, take refuge in my
bedroom. Nor do I emerge thence again. The ball itself goes on for
hours. The drawing-room is directly beneath me. It seems to me as if the
sound of the fiddling, of the pounding, scampering feet would never,
never end.

I believe, at least I hear afterward, that Mr. Parker, whose spirits go
on rising with the steady speed of quicksilver in fine weather, declines
to allow his guests to depart, countermands their carriages, bribes
their servants, and, in short, reaches the pitch of joyfully confident
faith to which all things seem not only _possible_, but extremely
desirable, and in whose eyes the mango-tree feat would appear but a
childish trifle.

The room is made up for the night; windows closed, shutters bolted,
curtains draped. With hasty impatience I undo them all. I throw high the
sash, and lean out. It is not a warm night; there is a little frosty
crispness in the air, but I am _burning_. I am talking quickly and
articulately to myself all the time, under my breath; it seems to me to
relieve a little the inarticulate thoughts. I will not wink at it any
longer, indeed I will not; nobody could expect it of me. I will not be
taken in by that transparent fallacy of old friends! Nobody but me is.
They _all_ see it; Algy, Musgrave, all of them. At the thought of the
victory written in Musgrave's eyes just now--at the recollection of the
devilish irony of his wish, as we parted in Brindley Wood--

"I hope that your fidelity may be rewarded as it deserves--"

I start up, with a sort of cry, as if I had been smartly stung, and
begin to walk quickly up and down the room. I will not storm at
Roger--no, I will not even raise my voice, if I can remember, and, after
all, there is a great deal to be said on his side; he has been very
forbearing to me always, and I--I have been trying to him; most petulant
and shrewish; treating him to perpetual, tiresome tears, and peevish,
veiled reproaches. I will only ask him quite meekly and humbly to let me
go h