“But you, yourself? Are you not coming?” he asked.
“No; I think I'll stay in. I feel rather too sorry for that poor little body.”
“You had better come. The brightness will cheer you.”
“I don't think I should care for it,” she replied, with her hand to her bosom, fingering a dark red rose in her dress.
Suddenly the flower fell from its stalk to the ground. She started slightly, from the unexpectedness, and, when Raine stooped and picked it up, held out her hand for it, palm upwards. But he disregarded her action and retained the rose.
“Do come!” he pleaded.
She glanced at him, met his eyes. A wave of emotion passed through her, seeming for the moment to lift her off her feet. Why should she refuse? She knew perfectly well that she would give her soul to go with him through fire and water to the ends of the earth. But she dreaded lest he should know it.
“Would you really like me to come?”
“You know I should.”
She went to put on her things. Raine stepped on to the balcony to wait for her. He could see the pale reflection of the illuminations, and hear the noise of the people, and the faint sound of music broken by the cracking of a cabman's whip in the street below. For a moment his surroundings seemed to him unreal, as they do to a man gliding over the edge of a precipice.