“Charles!” she cried, laughing. “You’re not very gallant this evening. Do I have to ask you to dance?”
“Well, not twice,” said Charles.
He put down his cigarette, rose, crossed the room to her, and put his arm about her, and they began to dance.
What was the matter? Every evening since Charles had come he and Madeline had had a dance or two after dinner.
“Charles is the most wonderful dancer,” Madeline had said, and Wickham had felt a little sorry for him, with only so futile an accomplishment to his credit.
If it made them happy, Madeline’s husband had been pleased; but he was not pleased to-night. He was uneasy, the music worried him, and he moved restlessly in his chair.
“Perhaps it’s this new coffee,” he thought. “I need the stimulation of the real thing. Poor girl!”
“Wickie, I’ve been deceiving you!” The words came back to him with a horrible shock.
“Good God!” he cried to himself. “What’s the matter with me? This is—shameful!”
He closed his eyes for a moment, and tried not to hear the music.