"Dear, thou wilt not be jealous if I dance one turn with thy young friend?"
She was addressing the wrong person. Already throughout the supper Aida, ignoring the fact that the whole structure of civilised society is [166] based on the rule that at a meal a man must talk first to the lady on his right and then to the lady on his left and so on infinitely, had secretly taken exception to the periodic intercourse—and particularly the intercourse in French—between Christine and Molder, who was officially "hers". That these two should go off and dance together was the supreme insult to her. By ill-chance she had not sufficient physical command of herself.
Christine felt that Molder would have danced better two hours earlier; but still he danced beautifully. Their bodies fitted like two parts of a jigsaw puzzle that have discovered each other. She realised that G.J. was middle-aged, and regret tinctured the ecstasy of the dance. Then suddenly she heard a loud, imploring cry in her ear:
"Christine!"
She looked round, pale, still dancing, but only by inertia.
Nobody was near her. The four people at the Major's table gave no sign of agitation or even of interest. The Major still had Alice more or less in his arms.
"What was that?" she asked wildly.
"What was what?" said Molder, at a loss to understand her extraordinary demeanour.
And she heard the cry again, and then again:
"Christine! Christine!"