A furious little battle of flowers began at his own table, but Neville was already lost in the throng, making his way toward the door, pelted, shouldered, blocked, tormented—but, indifferent, unresponsive, forcing his path to the outer air.
Once or twice voices called his name, but he scarcely heard them. Then a hand caught at his; and a breathless voice whispered:
"Are you going?"
"Yes," he said, dully.
"Why?"
"I've had enough—of the New Year."
Breathing fast, the colour in her face coming and going, she stood, vivid lips parted, regarding him. Then, in a low voice:
"I didn't know you were to be here, Louis."
"Nor I. It was an accident."
"Who was the—girl—"