But when
in spite of intention and even determination, something forced her
glance and made it a creeping, following glance--there were his
eyes again. She was frightened each time it happened, but he was
not. She began to know with new beatings of the pulse that he no
longer looked by chance, but because he wanted to see her--and
wished her to see him, as if he had begun to call to her with a
gay Donal challenge. It was like that, though his demeanour was
faultlessly correct.
The incident of their meeting was faultlessly correct, also, when
after one of those endless lapses of time Lady Lothwell appeared
and presented him as if the brief ceremony were one of the most
ordinary in existence. The conventional grace of his bow said no
more than George's had said to those looking on, but when he put
his arm round her and they began to sway together in the dance,
Robin wondered in terror if he could not feel the beating of her
heart under his hand. If he could it would be horrible--but it
would not stop. To be so near--to try to believe it--to try to
make herself remember that she could mean nothing to him and that
it was only she who was shaking--for nothing! But she could not
help it. This was the disjointed kind of thing that flew past her
mental vision. She was not a shy girl, but she could not speak.
Curiously enough he also was quite silent for several moments.
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