As Gail rose and stood before him, she looked into Roderick’s eyes. Her cheeks were flushed, she was enveloped in the mystery of song, carried away by music’s subtle power. Roderick too was exalted.
“Superb,” he murmured ecstatically.
“Thanks to you,” she replied in a low voice and with a little bow.
Then the buzz of congratulations was all around them. During that brief moment, even in the crowded ballroom they had been alone—soul had spoken to soul. But now the tension was relaxed. Gail was laughing merrily. Whitley Adams was punching Roderick in the ribs.
“Say, old man, that’s taking another mean advantage.”
“What do you mean?” asked Roderick, recovering his composure.
“Singing duets like that isn’t toeing the line. The start was to be a fair one, but you’re laps ahead already.” Whitley was looking with comical dolefulness in the direction of Gail Holden.
“Oh, I catch your drift,” laughed Roderick. “Well, you brought the trouble on yourself, my boy. It was you who gave me away by declaring I could sing.”
“Which shows the folly of paying a false compliment,” retorted Whitley. “However, I’m going to get another dance anyhow.”
He made a step toward Gail, but Roderick laid a detaining hand on his shoulder.