But Sylvia, dry-eyed, dry-lipped, could find no voice to answer; and after a little while they rose and moved through the fragrant gloom toward the sparkling lights beyond.
Her voice came back as they entered the brilliant rooms: “I should like to find Grace Ferrall,” she said very distinctly. “Please keep the others off, Mr. Plank.”
Her small hand on his arm lay with a weight out of all proportion to its size. Fair head averted, she no longer guided him with that impalpable control; it was he who had become the pilot now, and he steered his own way through the billowy ocean of silk and lace, master of the course he had set, heavily bland to the interrupter and the importunate from whom she turned a deaf ear and dumb lips, and lowered eyes that saw nothing.
Fleetwood had missed his dance with her, but she scarcely heard his eager complaints. Quarrier, coldly inquiring, confronted them; was passed almost without recognition, and left behind, motionless, looking after them out of his narrowing, black-fringed eyes of a woman.
Then Ferrall came, and hearing his voice, she raised her colourless face.
“Will you take me home with you, Kemp, when you take Grace?” she asked.
“Of course. I don't know where Grace is. Are you in a hurry to go? It's only four o'clock.”
They were at the entrance to the supper-room. Plank drew up a chair for her, and she sank down, dropping her elbows on the small table, and resting her face between her fingers.
“Pegged out, Sylvia?” exclaimed Ferrall incredulously. “You? What's the younger set coming to?” and he motioned a servant to fill her glass. But she pushed it aside with a shiver, and gave Plank a strange look which he scarcely understood at the moment.
“More caprices; all sorts of 'em on the programme,” muttered Ferrall, looking down at her from where he stood beside Plank. “O tempora! O Sylvia!... Plank, would you mind hunting up my wife? I'll stay and see that this infant doesn't fall asleep.”