Quite elated with this promise, the gallant Count reluctantly surrendered her to her partner for the fourth waltz, Captain Stanley Mortimer.
Again he held her in his arms, as he skilfully guided her amid the whirling dancers; again he felt her breath upon his cheek; again her upturned eyes met his—smiling, ecstatic, dreamy—and into their depths he looked with tenderness. He was vaguely conscious of her warm and yielding form pressed to his; of the rise and fall of her firm, white bosom and throat; of a strange, rare perfume, that seemed to exhale from her dress, from amid the glittering gold of her hair, intoxicating him.
His heart beating wildly, his whole being filling, thrilling, with a wild ecstasy of hope and of love, on and on they danced until the last bars of the waltz had been played out and the dance came to an end.
For a moment they stood silent. Then, with a murmured suggestion as to the warmth of the ball-room, he led her to the conservatory. Slowly they wandered along the winding paths until—unconsciously as it seemed—they reached a secluded seat under the outstretched branches of a wide-leafed Taribou tree.
For some moments they sat there—speechless, almost motionless. A great wave of emotion surged within him. Never in the wildest charges into the gray-coated Russian ranks, nor in the bloody night attack upon Varshava, nor when he had spiked the great gun on the heights of Vladivik, had his heart beat so wildly. He longed to speak and yet a species of dread—a coward fear—overawed him.
With an effort, he drew himself together and turned to her. She raised her eyes to his. Then the pent-up words suddenly rushed to his lips and in a mad, wild torrent of eloquence and love he poured forth to her the hope of his soul.
With his first words her eyes sank and with drooped head she listened, without sign or movement, to the very end. Then, as with hope and doubt—doubt and hope—tearing at his heart, he waited one breathless moment, she slowly rose to her feet and turned her eyes full upon his face. He caught a light in them which brought him, staggering, to his feet. He faced her with straining eyes and features tense and rigid—as a man awaiting his death blow. As last she spoke:
“You certainly play the part well, Captain Mortimer—so well one might almost believe it true. Really, I congratulate you.”
“Play—a part! What can you mean?”
“That the Tenth has indeed lost in Captain Mortimer a great player, alike in amateur theatricals and at—baccarat.”