Young men invited to dances at Mrs. Mason’s house in those days were expected to dance, and Gilbert had not much time for reflection. He went dutifully waltzing about the ball-room with one young lady after the other, and once or twice went out upon the veranda with a partner. Actually a moonlight night; he couldn’t have devised a better setting....
The moment came. He stood out there with Claudine, on the lawn, in the moonlight. She had suddenly grown quiet: he could see her face plainly, and it was grave, serious, almost sad. She looked more than ever like a spirit, in her white dress with her slim bare neck and arms.
The breeze blew the end of her silvery scarf against his face, and brought to his nostrils the faint scent of the perfume she used—some innocent, old-fashioned thing of her mother’s. He took her by the arm and led her under the shadow of a row of horse chestnuts.
Poor devil! He had no fit words. God knows what he faltered out.... But she didn’t care. Tears came to her eyes; indeed they were both very close to weeping. She reached out and touched his hot trembling hand, and they clung to each other, mute, with their pitiful young love, their hearts aching with the beauty of the matchless night and the supreme moment, unique in their lives, never again to be recaptured.
“Don’t tell anyone to-night!” she whispered, and for these few hours it was their secret.
§ iv
The very next day the trouble began. His mother received the news of his acceptance with a smile of satirical amusement.
“You’re old enough to know what you’re doing,” she said. “And so is she.”
“Claudine’s only nineteen,” said her son, answering her tone rather than her words.
“Is she?” said his mother. “I shouldn’t have thought so. She seems very sophisticated.... But I suppose that’s her upbringing.”