But, at the same time, Ruth was somewhat piqued because Tom Cameron did not come near her all the first part of the evening. She could not understand what the matter really was with him—why he acted in so offish a manner.
After that sixth dance (and Ruth had danced them all with one partner or another) she sent Chess away from her definitely. She went in search of Tom. The orchestra began playing for the next dance. Ruth looked keenly about the brilliant assembly. She knew Tom’s costume—it was distinctive and could not be mistaken. But she could not mark it at all in the throng.
Two or three men asked her to dance, but she pleaded fatigue and continued to walk about the edge of the ballroom. Finally, in an alcove, sitting at an empty table, and with no companion, she spied the recreant Tom.
“Why, Tom!” she cried cheerfully, “are you sitting out this dance too? And the music is so pretty.”
“The music is all right,” he agreed.
“Don’t you want to dance?”
“No. I do not want to dance,” he answered sourly.
“Not—not even with me, Tom?” she ventured, smiling rather wistfully at his averted face.
“With nobody. I am waiting for Helen and the rest of you to get enough of this foolishness and go home.”
“Why, Tom! You—you are not ill?” she ventured, putting out a hand to touch his shoulder yet not touching it.