"I will try," said Bertha. "And, if I do not, I think he will understand."
He did understand. The little incident had been no more lost upon him than upon others. He was glowing with repressed wrath, and sympathy, and the desire to do something which should express his feeling. He saw at once the change which had come upon her, and realized to the full all that it denoted. When he bore her off to the supper-room he fairly bristled with defiance of the lookers-on who made way for them.
"Confound the woman!" he said. "If it had only been a man!"
He found her the most desirable corner in the supper-room, and devoted himself to her service with an assiduity which touched her to the heart.
"You have lost your color," he said. "That won't do. We must bring it back."
"I am afraid it will not come back," she answered.
And it did not, even though the tide had turned, and that it had done so became more manifest every moment. They were joined shortly by Colonel Tredennis and his party, and by Mrs. Merriam and hers. It was plain that Mrs. Amory was to be alone no more; people who had been unconscious of her existence in the ball-room suddenly recognized it as she sat surrounded by her friends; the revulsion of feeling which had taken place in her favor expressed itself in a hundred trifles. But her color was gone, and returned no more, though she bore herself with outward calmness. It was Colonel Tredennis who was her first partner when they returned to the ball-room. He had taken a seat near her at the supper-table, and spoken a few words to her.
"Will you give me a place on your card, Bertha?" he had said, and she had handed it to him in silence.
He was not fond of dancing, and they had rarely danced together, but he wished to be near her until she had had time to recover herself. Better he than another man who might not understand so well; he knew how to be silent, at least.