Charlotte Leroy, in a rejuvenated dress of former splendour, was a beaming soul of delight. That Alexina, Willy and Celeste had really seen to everything Charlotte had no idea, for neither had she sat down that day.
But she beamed now while Molly’s low laughter rose softly.
Alexina rearranged lights and adjusted decorations. She went out to the kitchen and took a reassuring survey. Later, she told the Aden youths who asked, she didn’t believe she meant to dance. They did not press her; perhaps it was the gown, perhaps it was her manner preventing. She laughed, as if it mattered! She talked with Mr. Jonas, but all the time she knew that William Leroy, in his white flannel clothes, was outside, smoking, on the gallery. After a while she went out. He was leaning against a pillar, and turned at her step. The night was flooded as by an ecstasy of moonlight. His eyes swept her bare shoulders and arms, the shimmering dress, the jewels, then turning, he looked away.
“Come and dance,” said Alexina.
“I don’t know how.”
“It’s your own fault,” said the girl as promptly; “you climbed up on back sheds at dancing school so you wouldn’t have to learn.”
“It gave me my own satisfaction at the time,” said he.
“There’s so much that’s your own fault,” she returned, “and which you cover up by pretending that you don’t like or want. You’re as human as any one else. You make yourself believe you don’t want things because you’re stubborn and proud, but you do, you do.”
“Under proper conditions,” he admitted largely, “I might, yes.”
“Under any conditions, in your heart you want them, we all want them; you’re not different.”