“I come under orders from Captain Swords,” he said to Beatrice, “to act as his proxy for this waltz. May I have that honor?”
But the young lady looked up at him with large and mischievous eyes.
“I’m so angry with Captain Swords,” she answered severely, “that I’ll not dance with him even by proxy. I’ve decided to give the waltz to Count D’Arville, of the French Legation. Ask Miss Brandon. Perhaps she may take pity on—Captain Swords’ proxy.”
At these audacious words, Miss Brandon turned several colors and cast a sharp and furious glance upon Beatrice, who sat demurely looking up at the Captain. Captain Mortimer also glanced quickly at the speaker, but if the glance conveyed astonishment it certainly contained no anger. With presence of mind, he turned to Dorothy.
“You’ve witnessed my discomfiture,” he said. “Won’t you take pity on me?”
“As a proxy?” she asked, with an arch upward flash of the eyes.
“As a proxy, or—as you will!”
For answer she rose and took his arm.
They gained their positions upon the floor; the band struck up the opening bars. Once more his arm encircled her; once more he held her to him, as they glided around and around, amid the maze of waltzers. Again he felt the intoxication of her presence; the sweet, pleasurable thrill of physical contact which set heart and nerves a-throb within him. Through his brain there flitted the wild phantasy that for the mad joy of holding her enfolded in his arms, her heart crushed against his heart, his lips to her lips—that for one long minute of such ecstasy he would be willing to suffer instant annihilation thereafter. Then came the thought, sharp as a sword-thrust, that perhaps this waltz was their last, their eternal farewell; that never again might he hold her thus. So they danced on, the minutes seeming as seconds, until the band played the final bar and the waltz was at an end.
Half-dazed, he started to lead her back to her seat, but with a gentle restraining pressure upon his arm, she stopped him.