“Love,” he said, watching her face intently, “means sacrifice—surrender.”
“And you believe I’m not capable of it?”
“I think,” he replied slowly, drawing aside to let her pass, “I think I’m afraid to believe.”
Something in the deep tones of his voice sent a thrill of consciousness through her. She felt her breath come and go unevenly and, afraid to trust herself to speak, she moved forward without response in the direction of the door. A moment later they were drawn into the stream of people wending their way by twos and threes towards the ballroom.
As they entered, Antoine Davilof broke away from a little group of men with whom he had been conversing and came to Magda’s side.
“The next dance is just beginning,” he said. “Are you engaged? Or may I have it?”
“No, I’m not engaged,” she answered.
She spoke flurriedly. She was dreading this dance with Antoine. She felt as though the evening had drained her of her strength and left her unequal to a battle of wills should Antoine prove to be in one of his hotheaded moods.
She glanced round her with a hint of desperation in her eyes. If only Michael had asked her to dance with him instead! But he had bowed and left her as soon as the musician joined them, so that there was no escape to be hoped for that way.
Davilof was watching her curiously.