Well!... P. Sybarite drew a long, sane breath, laughed wholesomely at himself, and thereafter had eyes only to keep the girl in sight, however far and involved her wanderings through the labyrinth of the dance.
In good time the music ended; the fluent movement of the dancers subsided with a curious effect of eddying—like confetti settling to rest; and P. Sybarite left his station by the wall, slipping like quicksilver through the heart of the throng to the far side of the room, where, near a great high window wide to the night, the breathless shopgirl had dropped into a chair.
At Beelzebub's approach the Incroyable, perhaps mindful of obligations in another quarter, bowed and moved off, leaving the field temporarily quite clear.
She greeted him with a faint recurrence of her former blush.
"Why, Peter!" she cried—and so sealed with confirmation his surmise as to her mistake—"I was wondering what had become of you. I thought you must have gone home."
"Peter did go home," P. Sybarite affirmed gravely, bending over her hand.
His voice perplexed her tremendously. She opened eyes wide.
"Peter!" she exclaimed reproachfully—"you promised it wouldn't make any difference. We were to go on just as always—good friends. And now ..."
"Yes?" P. Sybarite prompted as she faltered.
"I don't like to say it, Peter, but—your voice is so different. You've not been—doing anything foolish, have you?"