In good time the music ended; the fluent movement of the dancers
subsided with a curious effect of eddying--like confetti settling to
rest; and P. Sybarite left his station by the wall, slipping like
quicksilver through the heart of the throng to the far side of the
room, where, near a great high window wide to the night, the
breathless shopgirl had dropped into a chair.
At Beelzebub's approach the Incroyable, perhaps mindful of obligations
in another quarter, bowed and moved off, leaving the field temporarily
quite clear.
She greeted him with a faint recurrence of her former blush.
"Why, Peter!" she cried--and so sealed with confirmation his surmise
as to her mistake--"I was wondering what had become of you. I thought
you must have gone home."
"Peter did go home," P. Sybarite affirmed gravely, bending over her
hand.
His voice perplexed her tremendously. She opened eyes wide.
"Peter!" she exclaimed reproachfully--"you promised it wouldn't make
any difference. We were to go on just as always--good friends. And
now ..."
"Yes?" P. Sybarite prompted as she faltered.
"I don't like to say it, Peter, but--your voice is so different.
You've not been--doing anything foolish, have you?"
"Peter hasn't," the little man lied cheerfully; "Peter went home to
sulk like the unwhipped cub he is; and sulking, was yet decent enough
to lend me these rags.
Pages:
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177