Moffat did not reply, simply because he could not; he was struck dumb,
gasping for breath, the room whirling around before him, while he
stared at her with dazed, unseeing eyes. His very helplessness to
respond she naturally interpreted as acquiescence.
"It is so good of you, Mr. Moffat, for I realize how you were counting
upon this first dance, were n't you? But Mr. McNeil being here as the
guest of your club, I think it is perfectly beautiful of you to waive
your own rights as president, so as to acknowledge his unexpected
contribution to the joy of our evening." She touched him playfully
with her hand, the other resting lightly upon McNeil's sleeve, her
innocent, happy face upturned to his dazed eyes. "But remember, the
next turn is to be yours, and I shall never forget this act of
chivalry."
It is doubtful if he saw her depart, for the entire room was merely an
indistinct blur. He was too desperately angry even to swear. In this
emergency, Mr. Wynkoop, dimly realizing that something unpleasant had
occurred, sought to attract the attention of his new parishioner along
happier lines.
"How exceedingly strange it is, Mr. Moffat," he ventured, "that beings
otherwise rational, and possessing souls destined for eternity, can
actually appear to extract pleasure from such senseless exercises? I
do not in the least blame Miss Spencer, for she is yet young, and
probably thoughtless about such matters, as the youthful are wont to
be, but I am, indeed, rejoiced to note that you do not dance."
Moffat wheeled upon him, his teeth grinding savagely together. "Shut
up!" he snapped, fiercely, and shaking off the pastor's gently
restraining fingers, shouldered his passage through the crowd toward
the door.