“And I’m sorry; blame sorry.” He turned back toward Kate Waddington, and she, the lightning-minded, read his expression. He had made a great faux pas; he had seemed more eager toward Eleanor, to whom he owed no gratitude for the invitation, than toward her.
“Would you care to drop in on Mrs. Masters as you go down town to let her know that you are coming? Or if you wish I’ll tell them—I’m going now—that way.” Her tone gave the very slightest hint of pique; her attitude put a suggestion. The game, plain as day to Eleanor, raised up in her only a film of resentment. Mainly, she was enjoying the humor of it.
Bertram rose promptly.
“It is time I was going,” he said. “I’ve enjoyed myself very much, Miss Gray. If 120 you don’t mind, I’d like to come to see you again.”
“And I’ll get into my things,” said Kate.
They all moved toward the door.
Kate passed first; then Eleanor. There hung beside the door-casing a hook, designed to hold the portière cord. Eleanor brushed too close; it caught in the lace at her throat. She pulled up with a jerk, gave a little cry; the lace held fast. She turned—in the wrong direction.
Bertram saw this tiny accident; he sprang forward, caught the lace, disentangled her. And to do so, he must reach about her so that his arms, never quite touching her, yet surrounded her as a circle surrounds its centre. She turned and looked up to thank him, surprised him, surprised herself, in that position.
And a wave which was fear and loathing and longing and agitation ran over her with the speed of an electric current, and left her weak.
Her face, with its own sweet inscrutability, showed little change of expression; but he caught a dullness and then a glitter of her eye, a heave of her bosom, a catch of her breath. As he stood there, his great frame 121 towering above her, something which she feared might be comprehension came into his eyes. And—