Later some of the party danced in the ballroom, which was beyond the saloon the other way, and now a definite idea came to Hector as he held Theodora in his arms in the waltz.  They could not possibly bear this life.  Why should he not take her away—­away from the smug grocer, and then they could live their life in a dream of bliss in Italy, perhaps, and later at Bracondale.  He had a great position, and people soon forget nowadays.

His pulses were bounding with these wild thoughts, born of their nearness and the long hours of strain.  To-morrow he would tell her of them, but to-night—­they would dance.

And Theodora felt her very soul melt within her.  She was worn out with conflicting emotions.  She could not fight with inclination any longer.  Whatever he should say she would have to listen to—­and agree with.  She felt almost faint.  And so at the end of the first dance she managed to whisper: 

“Hector, I am tired.  I shall go to bed.”  And in truth when he looked at her she was deadly white.

She stopped by her husband.

“Josiah,” she said, “will you make my excuses to Lady Ada and Uncle Patrick?  I do not feel well; I am going to my room.”

Hector’s distress was intense.  He could not carry her up in his arms as he would have wished, he could not soothe and pet and caress her, or do anything in the world but stand by and see Josiah fussing and accompanying her to the stairs and on to her room.  She hardly said the word good-night to him, and her very lips were white.  Wensleydown’s face, as he stood with Mildred, drove him mad with its mocking leer, and if he had heard their conversation there might have been bloodshed.

Josiah returned to the saloon, and made his way to the bridge-room to Sir Patrick and his hostess; but Hector still leaned against the door.

“He’ll probably go out on the terrace and walk in the night by himself,” thought the Crow, who had watched the scene, “and these dear people will say he has gone to meet her, and it is a ruse her being ill.  They could not let such a chance slip, if they are both absent together.”

So he walked over to Hector and engaged him in conversation.

Hector would have thought of this aspect himself at another time, but to-night he was dazed with passion and pain.

“Come and smoke a cigar on the terrace, Crow,” he said.  “One wants a little quiet and peace sometimes.”

And then the Crow looked at him with his head on one side in that wise way which had earned for him his sobriquet.

“Hector, old boy, you know these damned people here and their ways.  Just keep yourself in evidence, my son,” he said, as he walked away.

And Hector thanked him in his heart, and went across and asked Morella to dance.

Up in her room Theodora lay prostrate.  She could reason no more—­she could only sob in the dark.