“Seeing things?” he teased, as her eyes turned to meet his.
His were laughing, but she glimpsed in them what, despite herself, made her veil her own with her long lashes. He knew. Beyond all possibility of error she knew now that he knew. That was what she had seen in his eyes and what had made her veil her own.
“‘Cynthia, Cynthia, I’ve been a-thinking,’” she gayly hummed to him; and, as he resumed his talk, she reached and took a sip from his part-empty glass.
Let come what would, she asserted to herself, she would play it out. It was all a madness, but it was life, it was living. She had never so lived before, and it was worth it, no matter what inevitable payment must be made in the end. Love?—had she ever really loved Dick as she now felt herself capable of loving? Had she mistaken the fondness of affection for love all these years? Her eyes warmed as they rested on Graham, and she admitted that he had swept her as Dick never had.
Unused to alcohol in such strength, her heart was accelerated; and Dick, with casual glances, noted and knew the cause of the added brilliance, the flushed vividness of cheeks and lips.
He talked less and less, and the discussion of the sun-perishers died of mutual agreement as to its facts. Finally, glancing at his watch, he straightened up, yawned, stretched his arms and announced:
“Bed-time he stop. Head belong this fellow white man too much sleepy along him.—Nightcap, Evan?”
Graham nodded, for both felt the need of a stiffener.
“Mrs. Toper—nightcap?” Dick queried of Paula.
But she shook her head and busied herself at the piano putting away the music, while the men had their drink.