When Carruthers returned half an hour later, he found that the number of dancers had thinned considerably and that the ballroom was a far more comfortable place than it had been before. Sheila Delaney was one of those that had remained. Her nature was such that it was a physical impossibility for her to be dull for very long, yet Major Carruthers was definitely conscious that a fit of depression had overcome her. He rallied her with cynical generosity. “Give me,” he exclaimed teasingly, “and every time at that—the girl who is content with her lot—who doesn’t sit sighing for what she has not—” he paused and was somewhat startled at something he seemed to see in the expression on her face.
“I’m not sighing, Major,” she spoke with a certain wistfulness, “I’m very far from sighing if you only knew.” She rose and faced him confidently. He caught her by the shoulder with an air of parental proprietorship—looked at her intently—then said abruptly, “where’s young Warburton?”
“I haven’t the least idea,” came the reply—touched with unexpected frigidity, “gone—I expect.”
“Dance this with me, then,” said Carruthers, “before we go.”
“I don’t want to dance a bit,” she responded, “but I will—for you, Major.”
As their finger-tips met he noticed how cold she seemed. “You worry me when you’re down in the dumps, Sheila Delaney,” he remonstrated, “you’re quite cold.”
“If you want to know,” she laughed, making a spirited attempt to throw off her mood, “when you came along just now, I was shivering.”
He swung her adroitly round a vacillating couple who appeared likely to impede their smooth progress. “What’s been happening since I left you?” he inquired. “May an old friend inquire without appearing too inquisitive?”
“Nothing of any consequence,” she rejoined. “I just feel disturbed—that’s the best word I can think of.”
“Telling me that tends to disturb me,” he replied with quiet sympathy, “and I refuse to allow that to happen. Come—dance your very best.”