“I didn’t intend to hurt you, Palla,” he said.
She drew a quick breath, looked up, smiled: “You didn’t mean to,” she said. Then into her brown eyes came the delicious glimmer:
“May I whisper to you, Jim? Is it too rude?”
He inclined his head and felt the thrill of her breath:
“Shall we drink one glass together––to each other alone?”
“Yes.”
“To a dear comradeship, and close!... And not too desperate!” she added, as her glance flashed into hidden laughter.
They drank, not daring to look toward each other. And Palla’s careless gaze, slowly sweeping the circle, finally met Marya’s––as she knew it must. Both smiled, 113 touching each other at once with invisible antennæ––always searching, exploring under the glimmering aura what no male ever discovered or comprehended.
There was, in the living room above, a little more music––a song or two before the guests departed.
Marya, a little apart, turned to Shotwell: