“If Tory is willing when you have finished this dance, may I speak to her?” Donald inquired.
Tory nodded, feeling a mingled sense of pleasure and uncertainty.
Why was Don so serious? He had not appeared so an hour, not a half hour before. Had he recently received bad news? Could anything have been heard from Lance?
Tory’s eyes wandered among the dancers until she caught sight of Dorothy McClain, tall and fair and handsome. She looked more cheerful than in some time past, not less so. Therefore whatever information may have come to Don, he had not yet imparted to his sister. It then occurred to Tory that Don might be wishing to tell her first and ask her help.
She was glad when her own dance was finished and Don was found standing at her elbow.
“Come on, Tory, please, I want to talk to you and I think I know a halfway quiet place,” he announced, and led the way.
Accustomed to Don’s directness, without thinking of disputing it, Tory slipped out after him, avoiding speaking or catching the eye of any one who might stop them even for a moment.
The quiet spot was a pile of cushions under the bend of the long flight of stairs, partly concealed by palms.
Even after they were comfortably settled Don did not speak immediately.
Accustomed to his slowness, Tory did not ordinarily object, but to-night she was impatient.