And that
way--well he knew it!--humiliation lay, and opaque despair. Better to
live on in the melancholy company of a hopeless heart than in the
wretchedness of one rejected and despised. And who--and what--was he,
that she should look upon him with more than the transient favour of
pity or of gratitude for a service rendered?
But, since she, wise in her day and generation, did not ask him,
suddenly he was glad. The tension of his emotion eased. He even found
grace to grin amiably.
"To do Bayard out of that honour!" he said cheerfully. "You couldn't
invent a service to gratify me more hugely."
She smiled in sympathy.
"But he will be expecting to see you home?"
"No matter if he does, he shan't. Besides, he lives in bachelor
rooms--within walking distance, I believe."
Holding aside the window draperies, he followed her through to the
ball-room.
Already the vast and shining hall was almost empty; only at the
farther wall a handful of guests clustered round the doorway, waiting
to take their turn in the crowded cloakrooms. Off to one side, in a
deep apsidal recess, the members of the orchestra were busily packing
up their instruments. And as the last of the guests--save Marian
Blessington and P. Sybarite--edged out into the ante-rooms, a
detachment of servants invaded the dancing-floor and bustled about
setting the room to rights.
A moment more, and the two were close upon the vanguard of departing
guests.
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