"Oh, my knees are perfectly steady. It's only that they don't seem to belong to me. I'm—I'm excited—I've laughed too much—more than I have ever laughed in all the years of my life put together. You don't know what I mean, do you, Duane? But it's true; I've talked to-night more than I ever have in any one week.... And it's gone to my head—all this—all these people who laugh with me over nothing—follow me, tell me I am pretty, ask me for dances, favours, beg me for a word with them—as though I would need asking or urging!—as though my impulse is not to open my heart to every one of them—open my arms to them—thank them on my knees for being here—for being nice to me—all these boys who make little circles around me—so funny, so quaint in their formality——"
She pressed his arm tighter.
"Let me rattle on—let me babble, Duane. I've years of silence to make up for. Let me talk like a fool; you know I'm not one.... Oh, the happiness of this one night!—the happiness of it! I never shall have enough dancing, never enough of pleasure.... I—I'm perfectly mad over pleasure; I like men.... I suppose the champagne makes me frank about it—but I don't care—I do like men——"
"That one?" demanded Mallett, halting her on the edge of the palms which screened the conservatory doors.
"You mean Mr. Dysart? Yes—I—do like him."
"Well, he's married, and you'd better not," he snapped.
"C-can't I like him?" in piteous astonishment which set the colour flying into his face.
"Why, yes—of course—I didn't mean——"
"What did you mean? Isn't it—shouldn't he be——"
"Oh, it's all right, Geraldine. Only he's a sort of a pig to keep you away from—others——"