“Are you seriously asking me to be your wife?”
“I am. So far as you’re concerned, the advantages of such a course may not be obvious. To be perfectly frank, I can hardly see them myself. Still, you might do worse. At least, I’m clean, honest and sober.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” said Athalia Choate.
The man raised his eyebrows. Then he laid hold of the lady and started to dance.
It was a superb performance.
The floor was crowded, but, for all the notice of others that Fairfax seemed to take, it might have been empty. The two passed as one through the press, whirling, side-stepping, poising, translating every whim of the capricious measure into a masterpiece of motion. Athalia found herself treading as she had never trod before, yet making no mistake. The firm pressure upon her back became a powerful government, urging her to right or left, turning her, keeping her clear of collision, lifting her into the very spirit of the dance. The pace of the music grew hotter; the fury of the band, madcap. All about them people were labouring hilariously in a feverish endeavour to keep abreast of the rhythm. Fairfax’s feet moved like quicksilver . . . the two swam the length of the ballroom with a clean rush . . . he was doing another step, and she was late . . . she was off her feet, and he was thrusting again into the very heart of the crowd . . . her head——
Then the music stopped, and she was released.
“Am I sober?” said Punch Fairfax.
Miss Choate took a deep breath.
“Indubitably,” she said.