contact anywhere between them and neither made any move to resume it.
Both were trembling uncontrollably and each knew that the other was.

The hum of talk in the other room rose louder and finally became
articulate in Charlotte Avery's crisp, "Good night, my dear Paula,
we've had a most interesting evening. I shall hope to hear more of
your discovery. And see him too sometime if you make up your mind to
exhibit him."

March started from his seat at that. "Don't make any noise," Mary
whispered, rising too, and laying a detaining hand on him. "Nobody will
come in here. They'll all go now. We must wait."

He obeyed tractably enough, only turned toward her now and gazed at her
with undissimulated intensity; not, though, as if speculating who she
might be, rather as if wondering whether she were really there.

"Don't you want them to find you, either?" he asked.

"N-not after that," she stammered; and added instantly, "We
mustn't talk."

So silent once more, they waited while the late audience defiled in
irregular, slow moving groups down the hall toward the stairs. Mary
distinguished her father's voice, her brother's, her aunt's, all taking
valiantly just the right social note. They were covering the retreat in
good order. And she heard Portia Stanton taking her husband home. But the
music room was not yet deserted. There were sounds of relaxation in
there, the striking of a match, the sound of a heavy body--that of
LaChaise, probably--dropping into an easy chair.