“Polka?”
“And minuets—and valetas. Come and dance a valeta, Cyril.”
She made me take her through a valeta, a minuet, a mazurka, and she danced elegantly, but with a little of Carmen’s ostentation—her dash and devilry. When we had finished, the father said:
“Very pretty—very pretty, indeed! They do look nice, don’t they, George? I wish I was young.”
“As I am——” said George, laughing bitterly.
“Show me how to do them—some time, Cyril,” said Emily, in her pleading way, which displeased Lettie so much.
“Why don’t you ask me?” said the latter quickly.
“Well—but you are not often here.”
“I am here now. Come——” and she waved Emily imperiously to the attempt.
Lettie, as I have said, is tall, approaching six feet; she is lissome, but firmly moulded, by nature graceful; in her poise and harmonious movement are revealed the subtle sympathies of her artist’s soul. The other is shorter, much heavier. In her every motion you can see the extravagance of her emotional nature. She quivers with feeling; emotion conquers and carries havoc through her, for she has not a strong intellect, nor a heart of light humour; her nature is brooding and defenceless; she knows herself powerless in the tumult of her feelings, and adds to her misfortunes a profound mistrust of herself.