“Do be quiet.”
“What’s the matter? You aren’t dancing at all nicely and you haven’t looked at me once this evening.”
“No; don’t come on Friday.”
“Not——?”
Her voice was shrill with pain.
“No. That’s all over.”
She hung limp in his arms and her face was a ghastly yellow. She muttered:—
“Take me out. . . . I think I’m going to faint.”
He half-carried her into the passage, where she sat on the stairs and began to cry. Neither of them noticed Clowes and the young man from the Detmold sitting above them.
“Don’t cry!” he said roughly; “what have you got to cry about?”