She rose and led him into the ballroom, where a moment later they were whirling along together in the smart crowd, compelling even jealous onlookers to describe them as splendidly matched. As Dudley steered his beautiful partner among the other dancers the music caused a flow of sad memories to surge through his brain—memories of the hundreds of balls at which they had been happy in each other’s love.
He laughed bitterly within himself as he saw her smile at a man she knew. Yes, when he was dead she would, he supposed, mourn for him for the first day and forget him on the second, just as completely as she had forgotten her indulgent husband. He saw that look of recognition exchanged between them; but the man’s face was unfamiliar. He was young, rather sallow-faced, with a dark-brown beard.
But he made no comment. As this waltz was their last, why should he spoil it? Upon her all argument was expended in vain, he declared to himself bitterly.
The floor was perfect, the music excellent, and quickly the old flush of pleasure came back to her face.
“You are enjoying it?” he whispered to her.
“And why don’t you, Dudley?” she asked. “You really ought to put on a more pleasant expression. People will remark upon it.”
“Let them say what they will,” he replied in a hard tone. “They cannot hurt me now.”
“Well, dear, you look as grave as if you were at a funeral. Forgive me for speaking plainly, won’t you?”
“I am grave because I cannot take leave of all that I have learnt to love without a feeling of poignant regret,” he answered. “In future I shall be debarred from all this.”
“Why? Are you going to enter a monastery, or something?” she asked, her old easy-going insouciance now returning to her.