She trembled slightly, as he could plainly feel in his encircling arm. He looked down at her—she always was ethereally beautiful in evening dress. In his admiration he almost forgot how rich she was; he quite forgot how oppressively intellectual she was. “Do you—do you——” he began. Then he stopped dancing and led her into the hall, through the hall to the library. Two other couples were there, but far enough from the corner to which he took her.
“May I smoke?” he asked.
“I love the odour of a cigarette,” she replied, in a voice that encouraged him to resume where he had abruptly left off.
“Perhaps you will smoke?”
“No,” she said, in a tone that was subtly modulated to mean apology or reproach, according as he liked or disliked women smoking.
“Do you really like England?” he began nervously, seeing to it that his glass was firmly adjusted.
“I adore it!” Usually she would have gone on into poetical prose unlimited. But this, she felt, was a time for short answers.
“Would you—mind England—with—with——”
He halted altogether, and she slowly raised her heavy lids until her eyes met his.
“Catherine!” He seized her hand, and the thrill of her touch went through him. “You are so lovely. I—I’m horribly fond of you.”