Chapter 29

CHAPTER XXIX.

It was after ten o'clock. The dancers had already dispersed and
the last lights were being put out. To-morrow the tents would be
struck, the dismantled merry-go-round would be packed into
waggons and carted away. An expanse of worn grass, a shabby
brown patch in the wide green of the park, would be all that
remained. Crome Fair was over.

By the edge of the pool two figures lingered.

"No, no, no," Anne was saying in a breathless whisper, leaning
backwards, turning her head from side to side in an effort to
escape Gombauld's kisses. "No, please. No." Her raised voice
had become imperative.

Gombauld relaxed his embrace a little. "Why not?" he said. "I
will."

With a sudden effort Anne freed herself. "You won't," she
retorted. "You've tried to take the most unfair advantage of
me."

"Unfair advantage?" echoed Gombauld in genuine surprise.

"Yes, unfair advantage. You attack me after I've been dancing
for two hours, while I'm still reeling drunk with the movement,
when I've lost my head, when I've got no mind left but only a
rhythmical body! It's as bad as making love to someone you've
drugged or intoxicated."

Gombauld laughed angrily. "Call me a White Slaver and have done
with it."

"Luckily," said Anne, "I am now completely sobered, and if you
try and kiss me again I shall box your ears. Shall we take a few
turns round the pool?" she added. "The night is delicious."

For answer Gombauld made an irritated noise. They paced off
slowly, side by side.

"What I like about the painting of Degas..." Anne began in her
most detached and conversational tone.

"Oh, damn Degas!" Gombauld was almost shouting.

From where he stood, leaning in an attitude of despair against
the parapet of the terrace, Denis had seen them, the two pale
figures in a patch of moonlight, far down by the pool's edge. He
had seen the beginning of what promised to be an endless
passionate embracement, and at the sight he had fled. It was too
much; he couldn't stand it. In another moment, he felt, he would
have burst into irrepressible tears.

Dashing blindly into the house, he almost ran into Mr. Scogan,
who was walking up and down the hall smoking a final pipe.

"Hullo!" said Mr. Scogan, catching him by the arm; dazed and
hardly conscious of what he was doing or where he was, Denis
stood there for a moment like a somnambulist. "What's the
matter?" Mr. Scogan went on. "you look disturbed, distressed,
depressed."

Denis shook his head without replying.

"Worried about the cosmos, eh?" Mr. Scogan patted him on the arm.
"I know the feeling," he said. "It's a most distressing symptom.
'What's the point of it