"You are going to dance with me in the passage," he said.
Joan smiled at him and nodded. Now that Miranda had given way, Joan's spirits had revived. The colour was bright in her cheeks, her eyes were tender.
"Yes, but not at once."
"Why?"
"I'll finish my duty dances first," said Joan in a low voice. She did not take her eyes from his face. She let him read, she meant him to read, in her eyes what lay so close at her heart. Harry Luttrell read without an error, the print was so large, the type so clear. He took a step nearer to her.
"Joan!" he whispered; and at this, his first use of her Christian name, her face flowered like a rose.
"Thank you!" she said softly. "Oh, thank you!"
Harry Luttrell looked over his shoulder. They had the room to themselves, so long as they did not raise their voices.
"Joan," he began with a little falter in his voice. Could he have pleaded better in a thousand fine speeches, he who had seen his men wither about him on the Somme, than by that little timorous quaver in his voice? "Joan, I have something to ask of you to-night. I meant to ask it during a dance, when you couldn't run away. But I am going to ask it now."
Joan drew back sharply.