loss came over her. She could not help herself any more. But it was peace.
When the dance was over, Adams yielded her up. Whiston came to her.
“What was it as you dropped?” Whiston asked.
“I thought it was my handkerchief—I’d taken a stocking by mistake,” she said, detached and muted.
“And he’s got it?”
“Yes.”
“What does he mean by that?”
She lifted her shoulders.
“Are you going to let him keep it?” he asked.
“I don’t let him.”
There was a long pause.
“Am I to go and have it out with him?” he asked, his face flushed, his blue eyes going hard with opposition.
“No,” she said, pale.
“Why?”
“No—I don’t want you to say anything about it.”
He sat exasperated and nonplussed.
“You’ll let him keep it, then?” he asked.
She sat silent and made no form of answer.
“What do you mean by it?” he said, dark with fury. And he started up.
“No!” she cried. “Ted!” And she caught hold of him, sharply detaining him.
It made him black with rage.
“Why?” he said.
Then something about her mouth was pitiful to him. He did not understand, but he felt she must have her reasons.
