She let him take her hand. Then he bent farther and kissed her swiftly on the lips, for the first time. Her eyes had looked into his for one startled instant. Afterwards—she went forth into the night.
Fairfield's heart was on fire as he watched her disappear down the garden path. Then he closed the door, breathed long and painfully, and made his way back again to the ballroom, with its throng of dancers, the candles dripping wax, the musicians mopping their brows, and Vincent Trevor and George Rockwell side by side in the doorway, looking on together. These Sir Charles approached upon his errand.
"Ah, Vincent—" with a very fair assumption of carelessness—"Deborah is gone home—that is, to Dr. Carroll's."
Vincent turned. He had been watching Mary Chase. "Deborah! Why, what for, Charlie? Surely you've not been quarrelling? She's not—"
Sir Charles laughed nervously. '"Tis nothing but a most vile headache, got from the heat of the room and too much dancing. She wouldn't have me as escort, so I—I sent one of the house-servants with her. She took no chair, saying that the walk in the fresh air would benefit her. She begs that you'll not disturb Madam Trevor till the cards are over."
"Oh, very well. I'm sorry, of course. Er—I'm engaged for the next dance. I leave Rockwell to you." And Vincent darted off abstractedly, after a lively young woman in blue satin, who seemed in no particular need of his attentions, being much absorbed in Will Paca.
"Come, Rockwell, come; we must hurry—she's gone!" whispered Fairfield agitatedly, pulling his companion's sleeve.
The rector stood still. "What the—oh! Your young one, eh? Must I come now?"
"Of course. She's waiting, I say."
Rockwell, who had not yet moved, turned on him suddenly: "Listen, Sir Charles; if you marry Deborah Travis, I marry her cousin, Lucy Trevor—you understand?"