Somehow,
suddenly, a strange constraint possessed him where Zoe was concerned.
"Then let us have Zoe's song; let us have 'La Claire Fontaine'," cried
the black-eyed young madcap who held Jean Jacques' arms.
But Zoe interrupted. "No, no," she protested, "the singing spell is
broken. We will have the song after the charades--after the charades."
"Good, good--after the charades!" they all cried, for there would be
charades like none which had ever been played before, with a real actor
to help them, to carry them through as they did on the stage. To them
the stage was compounded of mystery, gaiety and the forbidden.
So, for the next half-hour they were all at the disposal of the Man from
Outside, who worked as though it was a real stage, and they were real
players, and there were great audiences to see them. It was all quite
wonderful, and it involved certain posings, attitudes, mimicry and
pantomime, for they were really ingenious charades.
So it happened that Zoe's fingers often came in touch with those of the
stage-manager, that his hands touched her shoulders, that his cheek
brushed against her dark hair once, and that she had sensations never
experienced before.
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