“Well, Perry, won’t you ask me to dance?”
“Who are you?” he breathed, taking cool fingers in his and sliding an arm about a yielding waist.
“I oughtn’t to tell you really, but as we’re such old friends . . . I’m Joan Atlee—_that was_.”
Peregrine’s heart gave one tremendous bound.
For a moment he said nothing, dancing mechanically and trying to find his voice.
“How on earth you knew me I can’t conceive, but it was . . . very handsome of you . . . to come up and speak—Joan.”
“Steady,” said Joan, wondering if he would notice the way her heart was pounding against her ribs. “There’s something you ought to know. We were engaged once, and you—you broke it off.” She felt his frame quiver. “If you’d waited another day, you’d never have written at all.”
“Because I’d written to you, Perry, turning you down. My letter wasn’t posted, so I took it and tore it up. I’m not very proud of myself, but I feel better now.”
“I’m—I’m so awfully glad you did, Joan.” Peregrine’s voice was trembling. “At least—you know what I mean?”
“I know, my dear, I know. You needn’t explain to me.” For an instant the hand on his shoulder rested less lightly. “The sea doesn’t run so high when you’re not alone in the boat.”
The pregnant saying sank into Peregrine’s brain like molten lead. Its poignant pertinence, the old, dead fellowship it brought to life, the hint it held of an acquaintance with grief, lightened his darkness with three dazzling beams.
“Oh, Joan, I’m so—so thankful we’ve met,” he stammered lamely enough.
“You’re not half as thankful as I am, Perry,” she said. “We may have tired of each other—or thought we did—but at least we understood.”
They danced the length of the chamber in eloquent silence.
“You know I’m married, Perry?” said Joan in a low voice.
“Well, I am. We won’t mention his name—for reasons which will appear: but I’m going to tell you about him because I _must_.” Her tone sank to a whisper tense and vibrant. “I’ve bottled it up, Perry”—the man started, and the clasp of the cool fingers became a grip—“till I’m nearly out of my mind. Think what it means to have no confidant—not a single soul to talk to who can ever begin to understand. . . . I drove over here from San Sebastian, praying for death by the way . . . _I came to find a confidant_—some stranger that I could talk to, under the mask, and then—then I saw you.”