CHAPTER XI
Patricia Wharton stood a moment on the edge of the terrace after the dance, slipped her hand into Mortimer Crabb’s arm and came down upon the path, drawing a drapery across her white shoulders.
“What is it?” asked Crabb. “You are not cold?”
“Oh, no,” she said quietly. “I think I am a little tired.”
“Come,” he said. “There’s a beautiful spot—just here.” He led her across the lawn and through an opening in the trees to a garden-bench in the shadow, a spot which none of the other maskers had discovered. Through the leafy screen they could see the gay figures floating like will-o’-the-wisps across the golden lawn, but here they were quiet and unobserved. Patricia sank upon the bench with a sigh, while Crabb sat beside her.
“Are you happy?” he asked after awhile.
“Perfectly,” she murmured. “What a beautiful party!” She placed her hand in his and moved a little closer to him, then sat listlessly, her eyes seeking the spaces between the branches where the people were. “I don’t want to grow old too soon,” she was saying. “The whole world is in short clothes to-night. Wouldn’t it be good to be young forever?”
Crabb smiled indulgently.
“Yes,” he said. “It is good to be young. But isn’t it anything to take your place in the world? I want you to know all a man can do for the woman he loves. Won’t you let me? Soon?” He bent over her and took the rounded arm in his strong hand. She did not withdraw it, but something told him a link of sympathy was lacking in the chain. As she did not reply he straightened and sat moodily looking before him.