Trenor had turned away, and his companion continued to stand before Miss Bart, alert and expectant, his lips parted in a smile at whatever she might be about to say, and his very back conscious of the privilege of being seen with her.
It was the moment for tact; for the quick bridging over of gaps; but Selden still leaned against the window, a detached observer of the scene, and under the spell of his observation Lily felt herself powerless to exert her usual arts.

The dread of Selden's suspecting that there was any need for her to propitiate such a man as Rosedale checked the trivial phrases of politeness.

Rosedale still stood before her in an expectant attitude, and she continued to face him in silence, her glance just level with his polished baldness.

The look put the finishing touch to what her silence implied.
He reddened slowly, shifting from one foot to the other, fingered the plump black pearl in his tie, and gave a nervous twist to his moustache; then, running his eye over her, he drew back, and said, with a side-glance at Selden: "Upon my soul, I never saw a more ripping get-up.
Is that the last creation of the dress-maker you go to see at the Benedick?
If so, I wonder all the other women don't go to her too!" The words were projected sharply against Lily's silence, and she saw in a flash that her own act had given them their emphasis.

In ordinary talk they might have passed unheeded; but following on her prolonged pause they acquired a special meaning.