Ida had hoped, in vain it seems, that she could scare him off. Remind him of serious things, and important topics, and how annoying his sister was maybe, or that he could be having a much more interesting time with any number of debutants in attendance who’ll do any number of gallops Ida will forever deprive him of. He was a bit odd, but surely there was a Potts girl or somesuch somewhere who would find this endearing. Ida wished she had a way to keep Mister Greengrass as a friend. But it was clear that this man was flirting with her now, what with all this pretty talk that wasn’t a joke. And the realization came with a disappointed, sinking feeling. Since when? But why? She let her guard down too easily. And now she felt terrible about it all.

“You… like my company,” she repeated, thinking of it as a question even if it came out like a skeptical statement.

Because in the end, there was no chance for Mister Greengrass. And now she had to find a way to inform him, because that was the right thing to do. Ida fleetingly considered her script and if she had the guts to say it – I never believed in love at first sight, until it happened to me would only tragically lead him on. But it was the truth – tonight cupid’s bow tore through her heart. Worse, it verified something she’s suspected in recent years. She was a lady who thought it was possible to be in love with another lady. Destined to be a spinster-- surely a fair exchange to be happy. Because the connection Ida will find with the dancer will be crystal clear once they meet, she was sure of it (while ignoring every instinctive allergic itch she had at the idea of deterministic fate). But other people will not take these feelings seriously, or think ill of her for feeling such insane things. Perhaps she’ll be institutionalized. Or worse, perhaps the dancer will be too afraid by it to consider Ida at all. Oh, why must this dratted love business be so hurtful?

Focus, she reminded herself, taking a metered breath to reel her mind back from its ten different directions. She put a jittery hand on the railing, and rolled her cigarette thoughtfully between her thumb and index finger.

“I meant to ask you before,” she finally ventured, desperate to shove away her nervousness with decisive focus on the problem to solve. If this was her destiny, which it undoubtedly was, Mister Greengrass would… fall away, in some way or another. He was quite perceptive. Perhaps he’d understand what she was getting at. “How is it that you strike up a conversation with strangers? Being or otherwise, what do you talk about first?”

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