He passed before her up the rosy twilight of the hall.
Violet, following, her lips tight, her breathing suspended, her heart pounding against her breast, was dimly aware of her own soft footfalls sounding hideously loud, of the blast of light and laughter from the parlor.
Dyker flung wide the vestibule door.
"Good-night!" he called to Evelyn.
"Going? Good-night!" Violet heard the Englishwoman answer.
She heard Evelyn rise. She heard the front door open. She saw Wesley raise his arm.
She hurried by the parlor door, and then, instead of turning to the stairs, gathered up her red kimona and ran through the vestibule, through a patch of soft, fresh darkness, and was tossed precipitately into a cab into which Dyker followed her just as the horse, under a quick blow, dashed madly up the street.
At the open cab-window the night air beat upon her fevered face. She drank it deep into her thirsting lungs. It was the wine of freedom.