"She's right—how?"
"Right—because I oughtn't to come. I'm—I'm not free to come."
"Do you mean—?" She paused, not because she was embarrassed, but only to find the right words. She kept her eyes on his with a candor he could do nothing but reciprocate. "Do you mean that you're bound—elsewhere?"
He nodded. "That's it."
"Oh!" She withdrew her eyes at last, letting her gaze wander vaguely over the music-room, about which the other guests were seated. They were lined on gilded settees against the white French-paneled walls, while a young man played Chopin's Ballade in A flat on a grand piano in the far corner. Not being in the music-room itself, but in the large, square hall outside, the two young people could talk in low tones without disturbing the company. If she betrayed emotion it was only in the nervousness with which she tapped her closed fan against the palm of her left hand. Her eyes came back to his face. "I'm glad you've told me."
He took a virtuous tone. "I think those things ought to be—to be open and aboveboard."
"Oh, of course. The wonder is that I shouldn't have heard it. One generally does."
"Oh, well, you wouldn't in this case."
"Isn't it anybody—about here?"
"It's some one about here, but not any one you would have heard of. She lives in our village. She's the daughter of a—well, of a market-gardener."