If she did, why did she hide her knowledge behind an unfathomable masquerade?
"That was kind of you," he heard her say. "Poor Dolly!"
She glanced up. Interrogation entered her eyes.
"I came from Princeton with Dick Goodhue," he explained. "It seemed such a simple thing. Shouldn't I have cut in?"
He looked straight at her now. His heart seemed to stop. She had to be made to remember.
"I've heard Betty talk of you. You're a great football player. It was very kind. Of course it's all right."
But it wasn't. The touch of her hand became unbearable to George because she didn't remember. He had to make her remember.
They were near the entrance. He paused and drew her apart from the circling dancers.
"Would you mind losing a little of this?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady. "It may seem queer, but I have something to tell you that you ought to know."
"I can't imagine----" she began. "What is it?"
It was only a step through the door and to an alcove with a red plush bench. The light was soft there. No one was close enough to hear. She sat down, laughing.
He, too, sat down. He spoke deliberately.
"The last two times I've seen you you wouldn't remember me. Even now, when I've told you my name, you won't."
"It's about you! But I said Betty had----Who are you?"
"If I didn't tell you you might remember later. Anyway, I wouldn't want to fight a person whose eyes were closed."
Her lips half parted. She appeared a trifle frightened. She made a movement as if to rise.
He called on the hatred that had increased during the hours of his mental and physical slavery, a hatred to be appeased only through his complete mastery of her.
"It won't take much to remind you," he hurried on. "Although you talk to me as if I were a man now, last summer I was a beast because I had the nerve to touch you when you were thrown from your horse."
She stood up quickly, reaching out for the alcove curtain. Her contralto voice was uneven.
"Stop! You shouldn't have said that. You shouldn't have told me."
All at once she straightened, her cheeks flaming. She started for the ballroom. He sprang after her, whispering over her shoulder:
"I don't know how you got here, but you ask for a fight, Mr. Morton----"
Then he knew again that sickening sensation of treacherous ground eager to swallow him.