He saw then what she had seen. They were cut off. From left and right, the streams of hurrying men and women converged upon them, sweeping them forward as an Atlantic roller tosses driftwood on its crest. For an instant they were separated. He fought his way savagely back to her side, and caught her to him with the roughness of panic.
She looked up at him, smiling tranquilly, inscrutably. "Afraid, Tristram?"
"Yes—horribly—hideously—if I had lost you——"
"You didn't. I'm not afraid."
"I can't forgive myself——"
"Why should you? I am very happy."
"We must keep together. Give me your hand."
She gave it him. He remembered how it had lain in his once before, how the splendid vitality and strength of it had thrilled him. It thrilled him now, it burnt like fire through his nerves. They stood facing each other, holding their ground, swept into a moment's oblivion of all else but themselves. There was exultation in that grave, brief contemplation. The panic had died out of the man's eyes. He no longer pitied her or feared for her. He felt the joy of their new, fierce comradeship.
"If it were only myself—I could be glad——"
"Be glad!" she cried back. "Isn't it worth it?"