“Will you dance with me now?” he said almost in a whisper.
“Yes.”
They were soon in the ball-room again.
“Why did you turn me off in that way? Was it that you preferred dancing with Roxham?”
“O Clide!” The words escaped her like the cry of a wounded bird, and, with as little sanction of her free will, the tears rose.
He made no answer—no audible one at least; but there is a language in a look sometimes that is more eloquent than speech. Franceline and Clide dwelt for a moment in that silent glance, and felt that it was drawing their hearts together as flame draws flame.
She never knew how long the dance lasted; she only knew that she was being borne along, treading on air, it seemed to her, and encompassed by sweet sounds of music as in a dream. But the dream was over, and she was being steadied on her feet by the strong protecting arm, and Clide was looking down upon her from his six feet of height, the frown that had made the dark bars over his eyes look so formidable a little while ago quite vanished.
“Is Sir Simon angry with us?” she asked, looking up into his face.
“Not he! Why should he be angry with us? And if he were, what does it matter?” he added, in a voice of low-toned tenderness; “what does anything matter so long as we are not angry with each other?”
He drew her hand within his arm, and they walked on in silence. Franceline’s heart was too full for words. Was it not part of her happiness that this new-found joy should be overshadowed by a vague and nameless fear?