How quickly he had moved, in spite of his great
height, and how Tommy had laughed. But, for the past week, something had
gone wrong with the violinist. He had been away from the house one day
when she went, and that afternoon, when she "dropped in" on her way from
the station, he had hardly spoken. In his silence he seemed immeasurably
far from her, and she would have given worlds to read his thoughts.
During dinner he had been conventionally polite, but playing a _role_
was so foreign to him that even this laudable one of pretending to be
amused when he was bored sat gloomily and guiltily on him.
Carron sat by her for twenty minutes, but her eyes were fixed on
Joyselle, and her whole mind groping in the darkness for his.
There was a ball that night, so the party broke up early, but Joyselle
stayed, absently, as if he did not notice that the others were going. He
sat on a sofa and smoked cigarettes rapidly, rolling them himself, with
quick, nervous movements, and throwing them into a silver bowl before
they were half-burnt.
Lady Kingsmead tried to talk to him, but finding that, though he
answered her politely enough, his thoughts were elsewhere, gave him up
and took up a book, casting an impatient look at her daughter.
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