For five minutes and more Dorothea was entirely happy. M. Raoul--
himself no mean performer--tasted, after his first surprise, something
of the joy of discovery. Who could have guessed that this quiet
spinster, who, as a rule, held herself and walked so awkwardly, would
prove the best partner in the room? He had not the least doubt of it.
Others danced with more abandonment, with more exuberant vigour--
"romped" was his criticism--but none with such _elan_ perfectly
restrained, covering precision with grace. Hands across, cast off and
wheel; as their fingers met again he felt the tense nerves, the throb
of the pulse beneath the glove. Her lips were parted, her eyes and
whole face animated. She was not thinking of him, or of anyone; only
of the swing and beat of the music, the sway of life and colour, her
own body swaying to it, enslaved to the moment and answering no other
call.
"I understand why they call it the Triumph," he murmured, as he led
her back to her seat. She turned her eyes on him as one coming out of
a dream.
"I have never enjoyed a dance so much in my life," she said seriously.
He laughed.
"It must have been an inspiration--" he began, and checked himself,
with a glance over his shoulder at the painted panel behind them.
"You were saying--" She looked up after a moment.
"Nothing. Listen to the Ting-tang!"
He drew aside one of the orange curtains, and Dorothea heard the note
of a bell clanging in a distant street.
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