They had deserted the packed moving mass, in whose midst dancing was little more than a promenade under difficulties, and stood aside in an alcove that opened off the ballroom.
"Look at Evelyn. Isn't she charming in that dress?" Honor exclaimed, as the Golden Butterfly whirled past, like an incarnate sunbeam, in her husband's arms. "I feel a Methuselah when I see how freshly and rapturously she is enjoying it all. This is my seventh Commission Ball, Major Wyndham! No doubt most people think it high time I hid my diminished head in England. But my head refuses to feel diminished,"—she lifted it a little in speaking,—"and I prefer to remain where I am."
"On the Border?"
"Yes. On the Border for choice."
"You were keen to get there, I remember," he said, restraining his eagerness. "And you are not disappointed, after nine months of it?"
"Disappointed?—I think they have been almost the best months of my life."
She spoke with sudden fervour, looking straight before her into the brilliant, shifting crowd.
Paul's pulses quickened. He saw possibilities ahead.
"Do you mean——? Would you be content to live there—for good?"