"Isabelle!" His whisper blended in the music, and they seemed to float
nearer together. Her breath came faster. "Can't I kiss you, Isabelle--
Isabelle?" Lips half parted, she turned her head to him in the dark.
Suddenly the ring of voices, the sound of running footsteps surged toward
them. Quick as a flash Amory reached up and turned on the light, and
when the door opened and three boys, the wrathy and dance-craving Froggy
among them, rushed in, he was turning over the magazines on the table,
while she sat without moving, serene and unembarrassed, and even greeted
them with a welcoming smile. But her heart was beating wildly, and she
felt somehow as if she had been deprived.
It was evidently over. There was a clamor for a dance, there was a
glance that passed between them--on his side despair, on hers regret,
and then the evening went on, with the reassured beaux and the eternal
cutting in.
At quarter to twelve Amory shook hands with her gravely, in the midst of
a small crowd assembled to wish him good-speed. For an instant he lost
his poise, and she felt a bit rattled when a satirical voice from a
concealed wit cried:
"Take her outside, Amory!" As he took her hand he pressed it a little,
and she returned the pressure as she had done to twenty hands that
evening--that was all.
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