"You seem to be dancing everything, more or less, with your husband."
Kitty Drake, floating in like a smoke wreath, put in her word.
"A husband," she said sapiently, "is the only possible partner for a frock like hers. I always come to the Melton Ball in rags."
But when Rackham had departed, she looked curiously at Susan.
"You were rude to him," she whispered. "Was it the frock, or what? I am safe."
"I don't know," said Susan. "It is very unreasonable of me, but—I am always a little frightened when he is near me."
Kitty seemed to think that she understood.
"Reason?" she said. "My good girl, I've known more women wrecked because they were ashamed to give in to their frightened instincts than I dare remember. Don't begin to reason! It's simply a machine for making mistakes; it never mends them. Go and be happy. Go and dance with your husband!"
Barnaby had come to her, and there was pity as well as liking in Kitty's little push.
"Shall we begin?" he said, and his arm went round her as she swung out with him on to the shining floor. Dimly she was aware of music, of lights and people; an atmosphere of enchantment.