"Bayard," said Bab, and her voice broke tremulously, "won't you ask me to dance just once?"
"I?"
She was conscious that he turned swiftly, staring down at her. Then all the hardness in his face died out, the scowl, the trouble in his eyes; and the Varick she knew best stood there, the real Varick, smiling, friendly, kind. Indeed in his pity for her Varick's heart could have melted, for no one more than he knew what hung over Bab's innocent head. She saw his eyes flash then. Dance with her? There was nothing at the instant he rather would have done, and yet Varick hesitated. Again he glanced swiftly toward the drawing-room door.
"Please," pleaded Bab.
She looked up at him then, her eyes wistful and entreating, her lips parted in that old, familiar, twisted little smile of hers—the one that to him was so amusing in the way it wrinkled the tip of her little nose.
"You're not angry at me?" she pleaded. "Don't you want to dance?"
"Angry?" he echoed. His voice, filled with sudden feeling, startled her. "Do you think I could be angry with you?"
Bab didn't know. As he took her hand, his arm about her as they waited momentarily to catch the music's beat, she felt herself tremble at his nearness. She dared not speak, she dared not look at him. Her head low, her face against his sleeve, she breathed faintly, borne away by him, the music, half-heard, drumming distantly in her ears. She was not conscious that she danced. It was as if she clung to him and was carried on, drifting like a cloud. Then in her maze of vague, bewildering emotions she heard him speak, his voice coming to her distantly, small and penetrating like a bell's silver note.
"Bab!" he whispered. "Bab!"