Yes, he hated it all. But it was the end—his last night with the woman who had for so long held him enthralled.
He believed he had broken the spell when he left her at Albert Gate a few mornings before; but he now discovered that he had been mistaken. Her tears had moved him. Although she was much to blame, he could not bear to see her suffer.
Up that wide staircase, well-known for its ancient handrail of crystal, they passed to the ballroom, which, as was usual at Penarth House, presented a most brilliant coup d’oeil. The women, all of them splendidly attired, ranged from the freshest débutante to the painted brigade of frivolous fifty, the members of which exhibit all the pitiful paraphernalia of the womanhood which counterfeits the youth it has lost and wreathes the death’s head in artificial smiles. The crush was great, but even before Dudley and Lady Richard Nevill had entered the ballroom his beautiful companion was receiving homage from every side. Her arrival was the clou of the entertainment, and Her Grace, an elderly, rather stout person, wearing a magnificent tiara, came fussily forward to greet her.
Chisholm was quick to notice that Claudia had no desire to dance with any of the host of partners who at once began to petition her. Many of the men he knew—and heartily hated. Young scions of noble houses, a bachelor millionaire with black, mutton-chop whiskers, a reckless young peer, in whose company Claudia had often of late been seen, all crowded about her, smiling, paying compliments, and bowing over her hand.
But to all of these she excused herself. She was not feeling well, she declared, and as yet could not possibly dance. So by degrees her court slowly dissolved, and for a time she and Dudley were left alone. As may be imagined, there was much whispering in all quarters about her re-appearance in public with Chisholm.
They sat out several dances in a cool anteroom, dimly lit and filled with palms. In the half darkness they clasped hands, but they spoke very little, fearing lest others might overhear. Chisholm sat as one dead to all around him. As he passed through the great ballroom with its myriad lights and restless crowd he had mechanically returned the salutes of those who knew him, without recognising a single man or woman. In his present mood friends and enemies were alike to him—all of them so many shapes from the past.
To the woman at his side he clung, and to her alone. The memory of their bygone happiness he could not put aside. He would be compelled to make his adieux to life very soon—perhaps, indeed, in a few hours—and his only regret was for her. He could tell her nothing, and when he was dead she, like the others, would spurn his memory.
That thought caused him to grip the small, white-gloved hand he held. His lips moved convulsively, but in that subdued light Claudia could not detect his agitation. He was unusually sad and apprehensive, fearful of some impending catastrophe—that was all she knew.
She had tried to arouse him by making caustic and amusing criticisms regarding those about them, but all to no purpose. Her witticisms provoked no smile. He seemed utterly lost in his melancholy reflections.
“Listen!” she said at last. “There’s a waltz. Let us go.”