"If I had only met you first!" he cried. "If you had married me I would have saved you."
"Don't!" she supplicated. "Please, please don't! I hate the word—marriage. Who was it said: 'Love is a soufflé that marriage changes to a bread-and-butter pudding?' I've seen it borne out scores of times. Soggy, indigestible stuff, without spice or flavor."
The melody of the dance music which all along had seeped to them in harmonic murmur from the distant ballroom was now hushed.
In the distance, at the opposite end of the terrace, figures—single and grouped—moved in silhouette across the glare from the lighted windows. Along the garden paths there passed at intervals sentinel Ghurkas from the viceroy's guard of honor.
Young Andrews's thoughts were long, long thoughts. He was sorry for the woman, but he was still more sorry for himself. He had turned a little away from her. His head was bowed, and his gaze was lowered to the pavement at his feet.
Nina had risen before he was conscious of her movement. Then belatedly he sprang up.
"It is late," she said. "The Ramsays are probably looking everywhere for me. I mustn't keep them waiting."
But he scarcely heeded. He stepped very close to her and gripped her by either arm.
"Tell me," he begged, low-voiced, earnest, "is there nothing in your heart for me?"
"Oh, yes!" she answered quite casually. "Sympathy—oh, ever so much sympathy!"