“You can’t in a place like this. On these occasions they’re all more or less alike.”
“And on all others. The similarity of humanity is nerve-destroying.”
“A very pleasant state of things. None but a fool would wish it otherwise. But if you wish to dance you shall have partners in sufficiency. I’ll say you’re quite harmless to-night.”
“Say no such thing. Mariana tells me she was once bitten by a snake, and so was I. Since then I’ve had the greatest inclination to bite everyone who comes near me. She took it badly; I, by God’s help, was enabled to take it well.”
“What particular snake was it that bit you?”
“I think it must have been the God of Lucifram.”
Then he left her and went away, and through the evening Rosalie danced, seemingly happy, on to that hour when the Old Year and the New meet and part again.
Then she sought Mr. Barringcourt, and found him, not amongst his guests, but in that now deserted drawing-room where once Mariana had played for her. He was looking out on to the gas-lit streets, and the window being open, the cold night air blew into the room. The lights in it were shining fully, yet the city without was plainly visible.
“You have left the crowd?” said she.
“Yes,” he answered. “They can amuse themselves. You look tired.”