For an instant a gleam of surprise—of alarm—showed in her face; then the long, persuasive notes of the stringed instruments dropped to a lower, more enticing key. She yielded to the pressure of his arm, and the two glided in amongst the dancers.
They made the half-circuit of the room, escaping the observation of the house party at its further end; and as they reached the door, Clodagh pressed her hand detainingly on Serracauld's arm.
He paused.
"Tired?" he asked, looking down into her flushed face and brilliant eyes.
She shook her head faintly. Her heart was still beating too fast—her brain still felt too elated—to notice the ardour and the intentness of his glance.
"We must stop," she said softly. "You know, even the two minutes were stolen."
He slowly withdrew his arm from her waist, but still kept his eyes on hers.
"I suppose all the things in life worth having are come by dishonestly," he said lightly. Then, in a lower tone, he added, "Do you know that you dance—gloriously?"
Clodagh made no answer. Her mind was more occupied with the dance just gone through than with the partner who had shared it. And for the moment Serracauld was content with her silence.
Leaving the ballroom, they passed together down a long corridor that ended in a short flight of stairs, leading to the card-room.