"Excuse me"—she wished to explain why she had been startled—"I did not expect—"
"To see me here! It appears that they have given the scene-painter a free ticket, and I assume that it carries permission to dance, provided he does not display in an unseemly manner the patch in the rear of his best tunic."
He turned his head in a serio-comic effort to stare down his back. Dorothea admitted to herself that he made a decidedly handsome fellow in his blue uniform with red facings and corded epaulettes; nor does a uniform look any the worse for having seen a moderate amount of service.
"But Mademoiselle was in a—what do you call it?—a brown study, which
I interrupted."
"I was wondering why General Rochambeau had, not yet come to speak with me."
"I can account for it, perhaps; but first you must answer my question,
Mademoiselle. Are you not dancing tonight?"
"That will depend, sir, on whether I am asked or no."
She said it almost archly, on the moment's impulse; and, the words out, felt that they were over-bold. But she did not regret them when her eyes met his. He was offering his arm, and she found herself joining in his laugh—a happy, confidential little laugh. Dorothea cast a nervous glance towards her brother, but Endymion's back was turned. She saw that her partner noted the look, and half-defiantly she nodded towards the gallery as the French musicians struck into a jolly jigging quick- step with a crash at every third bar.
"Mais cela me rend folle," she murmured.
"Do you know the air? It's the 'Bridge of Lodi,' and we are to dance 'Britannia's Triumph' to it. Come, Mademoiselle, since the 'Triumph' is nicely mixed, let your captive lead you."