He was breathing quicker; her cheek almost touched his as he bent his head; her pulses were beating in tune with his. In a sudden faintness she shut her eyes.
And then the music crashed into silence and she was leaning against a pillar, stupidly watching the brilliant scene. There was a great buzz of talking under the gallery, and Barnaby was turning to his friends. She heard his voice now and then amidst the babel, but it was Kilgour and Gregory Drake who were trying to amuse her, picking out the celebrities, good and wicked, in that assembly of glittering dresses and scarlet coats.
"You'll notice," Kilgour was saying, "it's the older men who are dancing, and the young 'uns are looking on. They've no stamina, the lads! Do you see that woman like a tub, with hungry eyes?—She was a beauty once, but when her admirers began to slink off she went in for spirits—that awfully unpleasant kind that you can't absorb. She's always calling 'em up and setting 'em on to tell tales about her dearest friends."
"Yes," said Gregory, "it's really more unhealthy to offend her now than when she was an anarchist and used to spring little clicking machines on you and offered to explain how they worked. She got into hot water once, while it lasted, making herself a side-show at a bazaar. Some foreign personage was attending, and a rumour started that she meant to wind up her clock in earnest. It emptied the hall like winking. The Board of Charitables were no end annoyed."
"They say her fellow anarchists begged her to take her name off their books. Said she brought 'em into contempt."
"That wasn't why," said Gregory. "It was because she would bring Toby, her mastiff, to all their meetings. He and Biff, the thing she carried in her muff, used to scare 'em out of their lives."
"Look at that shop window!" said Kilgour, as another woman, smothered in diamonds, canted past.
"American, isn't she?—Cummerbatch married her for her money, and of course they're wretched. It never pays——"
Susan was conscious that the speaker had checked himself, in his face a ludicrous awkwardness. Had the world jumped to a similar conclusion about her and Barnaby? Instinctively she turned her head. She wanted to share the joke with him, to see his delighted appreciation;—but he was not near.
And he did not dance with her any more. The night dragged on, and one man after another bent his sleek head and offered her his arm. All Barnaby's friends were rallying to her flag. Still, in its turn, would come a star in her card, a dance that found her waiting for a partner who did not come.