After all, what did it matter? What
did it matter?
They reached the Town Hall and went up the carpeted steps.
Preston, in hunting pink, received them. He captured Sylvia's hand
and pressed it tight against his heart.
She stared at him with wide unsmiling eyes. "Seen the local rag?"
he asked, as he grinned amorously into them. "There's something to
interest you in it. Our local prophet has been at work."
She did not know what he meant, or feel sufficiently interested to
inquire. She pulled her hand free, and passed on. His familiarity
became more marked and more insufferable every time she encountered
him. But still she asked herself again, what did it matter?
He laughed and let her go.
In the cloak-room people looked at her oddly, but beyond ordinary
greetings no one spoke to her. She did not know that it was solely
her utter wretchedness that kept them at a distance.
She entered the ballroom behind Mrs. Ingleton, and at once Preston
descended upon her again. He had scrawled his name against half a
dozen dances on her card before she realized what he was doing.
She began to protest, but again that deadly feeling of apathy
overcame her. She was worn out--worn out. What did it matter
whether she danced with the man or not?
Young Vernon Eversley, a friendly boy whom she had always liked,
pursed his lips when he saw her programme.
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