For that one moment she had forgotten the presence of others.
Then a hand touched her arm. It was the hand of her elderly escort, in
whose face were anxiety and wonder. The woman started and took her eyes
from Philip. With her escort she seated herself at a table a few paces
away, and for a few moments Philip could see she was fighting for
composure, and that it cost her a struggle to keep her eyes from turning
in his direction while she talked in a low voice to her companion.
Philip's heart was pounding like an engine. He knew that she was talking
about him now, and he knew that she had cried out when he had spoken
Peter God's name. He forgot Barrow as he looked at her. She was
exquisite, even with that gray pallor that had come so suddenly into her
cheeks. She was not young, as the age of youth is measured. Perhaps she
was thirty, or thirty-two, or thirty-five. If some one had asked Philip
to describe her, he would have said simply that she was glorious. Yet her
entrance had caused no stir. Few had looked at her until she had uttered
that sharp cry. There were a score of women under the brilliantly lighted
chandeliers possessed of more spectacular beauty, Barrow had partly
turned in his seat, and now, with careful breeding, he faced his
companion again.
"Do you know her?" Philip asked.
Barrow shook his head.
"No." Then he added: "Did you see what made her cry out like that?"
"I believe so," said Philip, and he turned purposely so that the four
people at the next table could hear him.
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