"Oui, il fait très-chaud."
The laughter and shouts of triumph rose higher; the noise of breaking glass was like the waves upon a beach of shingle.
"Pourquoi il te regarde?" she found herself asking.
"Personne ne me regarde, chérie," the other girl replied.
But somebody was looking at her, somebody seated in one of the boxes for private supper-parties that were fixed all round the hall, somebody tall with short fair hair sticking up like a brush, somebody in uniform. He was beckoning to her now and inviting her to join him in the box. He had slanting eyes, cruel eyes that glittered and glittered.
"Il te regarde. Il te regarde," said Sylvia, hopelessly. "Il te veut. Oh, mon Dieu, il te veut! Quoi faire? Il n'y a rien à faire. Il n'y a rien à faire. Il t'aura. Tu seras perdue. Perdue!" she moaned.
"Dis, Sylvie, dis, qu'est-ce que tu as? Tu me fais peur. Tes yeux sont comme les yeux d'une folle. Est-ce que tu as pris de l'ethère ce soir?"
It seemed to Sylvia that her companion was being dragged to damnation before her eyes, and she implored her to flee while there was still time.
Somebody stood up on a table and shouted at the top of his voice:
"Il n'y a plus de champagne!"