He led her into the drawing-room, and they began to move up and down, round and round, among the other solemn and concentrated couples, all engaged in too serious an exercise to indulge in any conversation beyond an occasional: “Sorry!” “Oh, sorry!”
When they passed Concha, she and Rory smiled at each other, and he said: “Telegrams: Oysters.”
That meant: “We are both rather hungry, but never mind, it won’t be long now till supper—Hurray!”
How humiliating it was to be so familiar with their jargon!
She looked at him; his eyes were stern, and fixed on some invisible point beyond her shoulder, his lips were slightly parted. She was no more to him than the compass with which Newton in Blake’s picture draws geometrical figures on the sand.
Then the music stopped.
“Shall we sit here?”
He had become human again.
“It has been a lovely dance—I do think it’s so awfully good of you all to have me down for Christmas.”
How many times exactly had she heard that during the last week? Once before to herself, twice to the Doña, once to her father, once to Jollypot.