"Come," he went on; "dance for me. There's going to be a devil of a storm—keep time to it. I'm here—I ask pardon for being here—but you can't turn me out in the storm. Come, let us have another big memory for our adventure."
Still Joan sat contemplating the man near her, her hands lightly clasped on her lap, her slim feet crossed and at ease—little stocking-shod feet to which Raymond's eyes turned. She had never looked, to Raymond, so provoking and tempting.
"What's up, really?" he asked, "you're not going to spoil everything by a silly tantrum, are you?"
Joan hadn't the slightest appearance of temper—she was quite at ease, apparently, though her heart almost choked her by its beating.
"You have spoiled everything," she said, "not I. You somehow have made our play end abruptly by coming here. I don't think I ever can play again. It's like knowing there isn't—any—any Santa Claus; I can't explain. But something has happened. Something so awful that I cannot put it into words."
Raymond got up and stood before Joan. He looked down and smiled, and at that moment she knew that he was not his old self and she knew what had changed him! And yet with the understanding a deeper emotion swept over her, one of familiarity. It was like finding someone she had known long ago in Raymond's place; as if she had lived through this scene before.
She summoned a latent power to deal with the new conditions.
"You pretty little thing!" Raymond whispered, and touched Joan's shoulder. She got up quickly and moved across the room.
"I always want light when there is a storm," she said, and touched the switch.
Raymond, in the glare, looked flushed and impatient. A crash of thunder shook the old house.