"Why, I'm all right," he returned. "Linda's been with me, but just now I made her go dance. You go, too, won't you?"
But Bab said no; she meant to sit with him a while, and in spite of his protests she drew up a chair to the corner where he sat. It would be like David, she knew, to see that all the others enjoyed themselves while he was left to look on. Presently when he began to protest, "But this is your dance, dear, yours!" Bab gently laid a hand on his.
"Yes, but I wish to be with you, don't you see?"
She heard him catch softly at his breath.
"With me?"
His fingers closed on the hand that still touched his, but Bab made no effort to withdraw it.
"Babs," he said, and again, as if he feared to frighten her, his voice grew gentle—"Babs, I can make you happy; I can do everything in the world for you. Give me your answer now, won't you? You've got to give it tonight, you know, so why wait? The sooner the better, Babs."
She did not answer. Beneath the filmy chiffon of her dress she could feel her heart flutter like the wings of a captive moth. She dared not look at him. She knew that if she did she would betray herself to that throng of gay, careless dancers, these guests of hers, intent though they were on their gayety. But troubled, agitated at what he asked, she could not but wonder at his insistence on haste. Why was it so imperative that she should answer now? It all seemed so swift, so breathlessly unexpected too. His hands tightened on hers.
"Babs."
She still did not answer.