Francis shrugged his shoulders.
“I have given up wondering,” he said. “Margaret, do you hear that music?”
She laughed.
“Are we really to dance?” she murmured. “Do you want to make a girl of me again?”
“Well, I shouldn't be a magician, should I?” he answered.
They passed into the ballroom and danced for some time. The music was seductive and perfect, without any of the blatant notes of too many of the popular orchestras. The floor seemed to sway under their feet.
“This is a new joy come back into life!” Margaret exclaimed, as they rested for a moment.
“The first of many,” he assured her.
They stood in the archway between the winter-garden and the dancing-gallery, from which they could command a view of the passing crowds. Francis scanned the faces of the men and women with intense interest. Many of them were known to him by sight, others were strangers. There was a judge, a Cabinet Minister, various members of the aristocracy, a sprinkling from the foreign legations, and although the stage was not largely represented, there were one or two well-known actors. The guests seemed to belong to no universal social order, but to Francis, watching them almost eagerly, they all seemed to have something of the same expression, the same slight air of weariness, of restless and unsatisfied desires.
“I can't believe that the place is real, or that these people we see are not supers,” Margaret whispered.