He was to depart at ten. The hour drew near and he had had no
opportunity for detached conversation with Miss Cameron. He had
listened to her bright retorts to O'Dowd's sallies, and marvelled at
the ease and composure with which she met the witty Irishman on even
terms. Her voice, always low and distinct, was never without the
suggestion of good-natured raillery; he was enchanted by the faint,
delicious chuckle that rode in every sentence she uttered during these
sprightly tilts.
When the conversation turned to serious topics, her voice steadied
perceptibly, the blue in her eyes took on a deeper and darker hue, the
half-satirical smile vanished from her adorable lips, and she spoke
with the gravity of a profound thinker. Barnes watched her,
fascinated, bereft of the power to concentrate his thoughts on
anything else. He hung on her every movement, hoping and longing for
the impersonal glance or remark with which she occasionally favoured
him.
Not until the very close of the evening, and when he had resigned
himself to hopelessness, did the opportunity come for him to speak
with her alone. She caught his eye, and, to his amazement, made a
slight movement of her head, unobserved by the others but curiously
imperative to him.
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