Vilas read him at a glance. "You're afraid to find out!" he cried.
Then he set his hand on the other's shoulder. "If there ever was a
God's fool, it's you, Dick Lindley. Really, I wonder the world
hasn't kicked you around more than it has; you'd never kick back!
You're as easy as an old shoe. Cora makes you unhappy," he went
on, and with the very mention of her name, his voice shook with
passion,--"but on my soul I don't believe you know what jealousy
means: you don't even understand hate; you don't eat your
heart----"
"Let's go and eat something better," suggested Richard, laughing.
"There's a continuous supper downstairs and I hear it's very
good."
Ray smiled, rescued for a second from himself. "There isn't
anything better than your heart, you old window-pane, and I'm glad
you don't eat it. And if I ever mix it up with Don Giovanni T.
Corliss--`T' stands for Toreador--I do believe it'll be partly on
your----" He paused, leaving the sentence unfinished, as his
attention was caught by the abysmal attitude of a figure in
another part of the gallery: Mr. Wade Trumble, alone in a corner,
sitting upon the small of his small back, munching at an unlighted
cigar and otherwise manifesting a biting gloom. Ray drew Lindley's
attention to this tableau of pain. "Here's a three of us!" he
said. He turned to look down into the rhythmic kaleidoscope of
dancers. "And there goes the girl we all _ought_ to be morbid
about."
"Who is that?"
"Laura Madison. Why aren't we? What a self-respecting creature she
is, with that cool, sweet steadiness of hers--she's like a
mountain lake. She's lovely and she plays like an angel, but so
far as anybody's ever thinking about her is concerned she might
almost as well not exist. Yet she's really beautiful to-night, if
you can manage to think of her except as a sort of retinue for
Cora."
"She _is_ rather beautiful to-night. Laura's always a very
nice-looking girl," said Richard, and with the advent of an idea,
he added: "I think one reason she isn't more conspicuous and
thought about is that she is so quiet," and, upon his companion's
greeting this inspiration with a burst of laughter, "Yes, that was
a brilliant deduction," he said; "but I do think she's about the
quietest person I ever knew. I've noticed there are times when
she'll scarcely speak at all for half an hour, or even more."
"You're not precisely noisy yourself," said Ray. "Have you danced
with her this evening?"
"Why, no," returned the other, in a tone which showed this
omission to be a discovery; "not yet. I must, of course."
"Yes, she's really `rather' beautiful. Also, she dances `rather'
better than any other girl in town. Go and perform your painful
duty."
"Perhaps I'd better," said Richard thoughtfully, not perceiving
the satire. "At any rate, I'll ask her for the next."
He found it unengaged. There came to Laura's face an April change
as he approached, and she saw he meant to ask her to dance. And,
as they swam out into the maelstrom, he noticed it, and remarked
that it _was_ rather warm, to which she replied by a cheerful nod.
Presently there came into Richard's mind the thought that he was
really an excellent dancer; but he did not recall that he had
always formed the same pleasing estimate of himself when he danced
with Laura, nor realize that other young men enjoyed similar
self-help when dancing with her. And yet he repeated to her what
Ray had said of her dancing, and when she laughed as in
appreciation of a thing intended humorously, he laughed, too, but
insisted that she did dance "very well indeed." She laughed again
at that, and they danced on, not talking. He had no sense of
"guiding" her; there was no feeling of effort whatever; she seemed
to move spontaneously with his wish, not to his touch; indeed, he
was not sensible of touching her at all.
"Why, Laura," he exclaimed suddenly, "you dance _beautifully_!"
She stumbled and almost fell; saved herself by clutching at his
arm; he caught her; and the pair stopped where they were, in the
middle of the floor. A flash of dazed incredulity from her dark
eyes swept him; there was something in it of the child dodging an
unexpected blow.
"Did I trip you?" he asked anxiously.
"No," she laughed, quickly, and her cheeks grew even redder. "I
tripped myself. Wasn't that too bad--just when you were thinking
that I danced well! Let's sit down. May we?"
They went to some chairs against a wall. There, as they sat, Cora
swung by them, dancing again with her lieutenant, and looking up
trancedly into the gallant eyes of the triumphant and intoxicated
young man. Visibly, she was a woman with a suitor's embracing arm
about her. Richard's eyes followed them.
"Ah, don't!" said Laura in a low voice.