“Why? What do you want to telegraph to her for?”
I flushed. “I—I have no money—” I stammered.
“Well, I have,” said Prilukoff, and he drew me out of the office.
At the top of the steps he stopped and looked me in the face. “What a fortunate meeting!” he said. “Our lucky star must have brought it about.” With these words his brown eyes looked straight into mine. “Our lucky star!” he repeated.
Merciful heaven, why did not a whisper, not a breath of warning come to me then? Why did no tremor in my soul admonish me, no heavenly inspiration hold me back? Nothing, nothing checked the smile upon my lips, nor the words in which I gaily answered him:
“Our lucky star! So be it.” And I took his arm.
The die of my destiny was cast. I went out on my way to destruction and ruin.
There were many people and much music in the Métropole when we entered.
It is strange to think how all the memorable and significant hours of my life are associated in my mind with the entrancing rhythm of dance-music, with the lilting tunes of waltz, mazurka and polonaise.