"Babs, dearest," he whispered.
Though his voice broke, deep with its entreaty, she still steeled herself. Then his fingers released hers slowly and he drew in a breath, a sigh.
"Well, if you won't even look at me," he said, and at that the walls of the city gave.
"Oh, David, David!" and she looked at him, her eyes suffused. "If only I can make you happy!"
"Happy?" he echoed hoarsely. His face was transfigured.
"Yes, if only I can," she said.
The music went on. Alone then, forgotten as it seemed in the midst of that rising gayety, the man and the girl sat silent, their faces tortured into an air of bland, conventional impassivity. Of the storm that racked them inwardly who saw or who in that room could have known? It was for them, for one of them at least, the greatest, the most potential moment that life can bring; but life—the life they led, that is—ordered that they must hide every hint of their emotion. Finally David, summoning his courage, looked at her. His voice when he spoke broke again. His face, too, in that moment had grown heavy and lined with care.
"You must go dance now, Babs," he said fixedly. "This mustn't spoil your party. Come!"
She tried weakly to protest.