June stood just beyond them. Breaking into Rosamund’s last words came the little blow of her fan striking the floor. Her program fluttered down beside it.
“Why, Miss Allen,” said her companion, a youth who had been the first to impart the news of the evening, “what is it? You’re dropping everything.”
As he bent on his knees to pick up the fallen properties, the Colonel roughly pushed him aside. June’s stricken face appalled him. He drew one of her hands through his arm, and said in a low authoritative voice:
“Come. We’re going home. Walk to the door and I’ll get the carriage in a minute.”
She made an effort and turning moved toward the door. In the passing in and out of laughing people, flushed with exercise and pleasure, no one noticed her except Rion, who suddenly saw her approach and sweep by, her eyes staring before her, her face set like a stone. Rosamund had taken the fan and program from the astonished boy, and with a rapid sentence to the effect that her sister felt faint, followed them. Rion dared to touch her arm as she passed through the doorway.
“What’s the matter with June?” he said bruskly. “She looks as if she were dying.”
“She’s sick. She—she—feels faint. It’s—it’s—a sort of an attack.”
She hurried on down the long flagged hall, at one side of which was the dressing-room. Rion followed and saw the three enter it. He stood outside, irresolute, not liking to look in through the open doorway and unable to go away. Presently the Colonel emerged, saw him, and hurrying toward him, said in quick, low-toned urgency:
“You’re just the man I want. June’s sick. I’m going to get the carriage and I don’t want any of these fools of people round here to see her. You bring her down as soon as she’s ready.”
“What’s the matter with her?” Rion asked again. “Is it serious?”