 still
they walked in silence until they had reached the farther end where there was a
flush of pink light, and the second wide opening into the ball-room. Grandcourt,
when they had half turned round, paused and said languidly -
    »Do you like this kind of thing?«
    If the situation had been described to Gwendolen half an hour before, she
would have laughed heartily at it, and could only have imagined herself
returning a playful, satirical answer. But for some mysterious reason - it was a
mystery of which she had a faint wondering consciousness - she dared not be
satirical: she had begun to feel a wand over her that made her afraid of
offending Grandcourt.
    »Yes,« she said, quietly, without considering what »kind of thing« was meant
- whether the flowers, the scents, the ball in general, or this episode of
walking with Mr. Grandcourt in particular. And they returned along the
conservatory without farther interpretation. She then proposed to go and sit
down in her old place, and they walked among scattered couples preparing for the
waltz to the spot where Mrs. Davilow had been seated all the evening. As they
approached it her seat was vacant, but she was coming towards it again, and, to
Gwendolen's shuddering annoyance, with Mr. Lush at her elbow. There was no
avoiding the confrontation: her mamma came close to her before they had reached
the seats, and, after a quiet greeting smile, said innocently, »Gwendolen, dear,
let me present Mr. Lush to you.« Having just made the acquaintance of this
personage, as an intimate and constant companion of Mr. Grandcourt's, Mrs.
Davilow, imagined it altogether desirable that her daughter also should make the
acquaintance.
    It was hardly a bow that Gwendolen gave - rather, it was the slightest
forward sweep of the head away from the physiognomy that inclined itself towards
her, and she immediately moved towards her seat, saying, »I want to put on my
burnous.« No sooner had she reached it, than Mr. Lush was there, and had the
burnous in his hand: to annoy this supercilious young lady, he would incur the
offence of forestalling Grandcourt; and, holding up the garment close to
Gwendolen, he said, »Pray, permit me?« But she, wheeling away from him as if he
had been a muddy hound, glided on to the ottoman, saying, »No, thank you.«
    A man who forgave this would have much Christian feeling, supposing he had
intended to be agreeable to
