“What? That we danced so long?”
“Oh, no! That it should ever end!”
They looked about for a resting-place, but all were occupied. Girls in pink, in white, in pale blue, in delicate yellow, in every color that was becoming to their individual beauty, or to its absence, were clustered about the great hall, filling every seat. Around them, like bees in a flower-garden, hovered men in black.
“There is our chance,” he said, pointing to the stairs. Upon the first landing, but three steps from the floor, there was a semicircular recess along whose wall ran a cushioned seat. At the entrance, upon a pedestal of Sienna marble, sat a Cupid with a finger upon his lips; a bit of ancient sculpture from a Roman temple. Behind him, within, an inviting gloom suggested repose and silence. As they stepped upon the tiger-skin that nearly covered the landing, Miss Cabot was accosted by a man whose thoughtful face brightened up at the meeting. When he glanced at her companion there was a similar welcome, and they called each other John and Amos, and appeared to be on intimate terms. After a short conversation he left them and descended into the hall. She was puzzled at the friendship of these two men, and wondered what there could possibly be in common between a promising clergyman of exceptional purity of character and this dissolute, hot-headed Judd. As they seated themselves in the alcove, she said, in a tone of surprise:
“So you and John Harding are friends!”
He smiled. “Yes; and I lament your astonishment.”
She blushed at her stupid betrayal of the thought, while he made no effort to conceal his amusement.
“It may be an unkind thing to say of him, but we have been good friends for several years.”
Laying her fan in her lap, she devoted both hands to the wandering lock. “Is that what drove him to the church?”
“No. For that I am not responsible, thank Heaven!”