A man came hurrying forward, claiming Elsie, and Adams went to his other partner. Whiston stood watching during the dance. She was conscious of him standing there observant of her, like a ghost, or a judgment, or a guardian angel. She was also conscious, much more intimately and impersonally, of the body of the other man moving somewhere in the room. She still belonged to him, but a feeling of distraction possessed her, and helplessness. Adams danced on, adhering to Elsie, waiting his time, with the persistence of cynicism.
The dance was over. Adams was detained. Elsie found herself beside Whiston. There was something shapely about him as he sat, about his knees and his distinct figure, that she clung to. It was as if he had enduring form. She put her hand on his knee.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked.
“Ever so,” she replied, with a fervent, yet detached tone.
“It’s going on for one o’clock,” he said.
“Is it?” she answered. It meant nothing to her.
“Should we be going?” he said.
She was silent. For the first time for an hour or more an inkling of her normal consciousness returned. She resented it.
“What for?” she said.
“I thought you might have had enough,” he said.
A slight soberness came over her, an irritation at being frustrated of her illusion.
“Why?” she said.
“We’ve been here since nine,” he said.
