"Tell me," she said, and hesitated—"tell me something. If at the dance tonight—the dance you're going to—if—if things were changed; and I—you——"
Varick nodded quietly.
"Yes," he prompted, "if I——"
"If I were there," said Bab; "if things were changed and I——"
Again she paused. Her eyes, too, fell suddenly. Then she caught her lip between her teeth.
"Yes, Bab," encouraged Varick; "if what were changed?"
But Bab did not reply. Of a sudden, as she raised her eyes to his, a great wave of color rushed into her face, mantling her to the eyes. Of a sudden, too, the eyes fell, dropping before his look. Her confusion was furious and with an abrupt movement, swift and unexpected to him, she slipped from her chair and darted into the half-lit hall. Then the next instant she was gone, and Varick, his own face a study, stood gazing after her dumbfounded.
"Good Lord!" he murmured to himself.
For he was no fool, neither was he a coxcomb; and what Bab had let him read in her face had been a revelation.