She laughed, an apology for deeper feeling, and looked at him with eyes whose tiredness was lost in a certain appeal and pathetic beauty, that characterised them long since in the days of silence.
“I think I overrated my powers of—of endurance. I—I should be very pleased to give the last dance to you. I left it empty.”
But he shook his head.
“I have not danced all evening; I do not wish to make myself conspicuous now.”
“We could sit it out.”
“We might; but I am contrary.”
Then Rosalie went up to him and put her hand very gently in his arm, and almost whispered:
“I have a feeling of insecurity that grows with almost every hour. It may be childish, but I never professed to be much different from a child. When I stay with you it leaves me more or less, and always has done from the very first I met you. And now Brightcoat has left me, and I feel quite alone, a thing hardly enviable in any sphere. And I’ve gone through the evening as best I could, and tried to get the better of my weakness.” And then she laughed and drew her hand away, and said: “If such confessions are unusual, you only have this dress to thank for it. The jewels have magnetic power, and draw me to the owner.”
At this he turned round from the window and looked at her, and a very curious smile curved on his lips.
“That’s your solution, is it?” he said, and scratched his head thoughtfully with one finger. Then he added: “My mother said I was to thank you for the stone you sent her.”