"Weren't you enjoying yourself?" he asked.
"I couldn't—Tris, don't you see——?"
He looked past her into the brightly-lit rooms where a few couples were still dancing. He saw then what it was that had driven her out to seek him. Mrs. Boucicault danced the tango with Barclay. They were both conspicuous. Barclay was the only man in civilian dress, and, thanks to Rasaldû's angry absence, his deeper isolation was made more manifest. But he danced well—perhaps too well. Mrs. Boucicault gave a fierce little laugh of pleasure as he guided her swiftly across the room. She herself was an outrageous figure in her youthful, almost childish dress, high at the neck and loaded with jewellery. Her fluffy grey hair looked tossed and disordered, her cheeks were painted. But as she suddenly broke off and came towards them leaning on Barclay's arm, Tristram saw that there was nothing artificial in her shining eyes.
"Now, what do you think of me, Tristram?" she exclaimed. "Isn't there life in me yet? Don't you admire me?"
He felt Anne shrink closer to him. He bowed gravely.
"With all my heart," he answered.
"Oh, it's been splendid! I've been chasing the years and catching them up. Mr. Barclay dances so wonderfully, Anne: you should try your step with his——"
Barclay made a little movement forward. He only glanced at Anne. His eyes fixed themselves on Tristram's face.
"I haven't the pleasure," he said, in his soft mincing way. "Perhaps you'd introduce me to your wife, Tristram——"
"I don't care whom I dance with as long as our steps match," Mrs. Boucicault continued, with reckless ecstasy.