“Our dance, I think,” said Micky beside her.
She laid her hand on his arm mechanically; they went the round of the room once, then Micky, glancing down, saw how white she was and how her head drooped towards his shoulder.
He tightened his arm a little––he swept her skilfully out of the crowd and into a small anteroom; he put her into a chair and bent over her in concern.
“You are not well––what can I do? Can I get you anything?”
For a moment she did not speak, then all at once she rose to her feet; she clutched Micky by both arms; he could feel how her hands shook; there was heartbroken tragedy in her brown eyes as she looked into his face. For once she had forgotten her pride and the indifference into which she had been drilled for twenty years; she was no longer Marie Deland, a sought-after and courted beauty; she was just an unhappy, jealous woman.
“It isn’t true, Micky, is it?” she entreated him; her voice was only a broken whisper. “Tell me––oh, please, please, tell me. You don’t care for her, do you?––it isn’t true, is it?”
She forgot that he did not know of what she was speaking; it seemed as if everybody in the world must know of this tragedy that had desolated her life.
“I can’t bear it any longer––it’s no use.... I’ve borne all I can.... O Micky ... Micky.”
He forced her hands from his arms; he put her back into the chair and sat beside her; he hated to see the white despair of her face.