Judith yielded, passive, rapt, as his fingers fumbled with the gold pin.
It was like a dream to her, a wonderful dream, with which the whirling maze of dancers, the heavy scents, the delicious music were inextricably mingled. And mingling with it also was a strange, harsh sound in the street outside, which, faint and muffled at first, was growing every moment louder and more distinct.
Reuben had just succeeded in releasing the flowers from their fastening; but he held them loosely, with doubtful fingers, realizing suddenly what he had done.
Judith shivered, vaguely conscious of a change in the moral atmosphere.
The noise in the street was very loud, and words could be distinguished.
“What is it they are saying?” he cried, dropping the flowers, springing to the aperture, and pulling back the curtain.
Outside the house stood a dark figure, a narrow crackling sheet flung across one shoulder. A voice mounted up, clear in discordance through the mist:
“Death of a Conservative M.P.! Death of the member for St. Baldwin’s!”
“Ah, what is it?”
Cold, white, trembling, she too heard the words, and knew that they were her sentence.