A curious tone in which to decide one's destiny, and a curious choice of words to express such decision. But they were within possible hearing now, and, besides, Deborah was peculiar. The dance had ended before she spoke, and now they proceeded slowly down the room, side by side, silent, save when they stopped to answer some remark from others. Neither of them was ever after very clear as to how the ensuing hour passed. Both were with other partners, surrounded with other forms, moving, passing, talking, laughing, as though each present moment were supreme. Only when, out of the kaleidoscopic mass, one caught an instant's glimpse of the other's figure, distant or near at hand, a sudden heart-thrill would reclaim them from insensibility, and thrust them once more under the warm shadow of that near-approaching, veiled Future, that seemed to portend so much to both.
In the interval between the eighth and ninth dances Sir Charles again sought Deborah, and his manner banished a lingering partner from her side. She did not once look up as Fairfield led the way out into the hall by the open card-rooms, and then up the distant, deserted staircase.
"You are not afraid?" he asked once.
"DEBORAH PERMITTED HIM TO LEAD HER FROM THE BALL-ROOM"
She shook her head with a faint smile; but her hands were cold.
He put her light cloth cape about her, saw her tie a small hood over her powdered hair, and then he led the way into the empty hall back of the room. Down the steep flight of stairs she glided before him, stopping at last before the closed door, she less nervous than he. "You know the way? Are you not afraid?"
"The moon is up. Why should I fear?"
Without reply, he softly opened the little door, and his face was very pale as he bent over her: "You'll not fail me, Debby? I love you, dear."