“You have to dance,” she said, aglow and breathing swiftly. “Trust me.”
She took and left his hands and took them again and turned him about so skilfully that a wonderful illusion was produced in Wilmington’s mind and in those about him that indeed he could dance. Huntley made a crouching figure of jealousy about them; he spread himself and his cloak into fantastic rhombs—and then the music ceased....
“The Argentine Tango!” cried Huntley. “Joan, you must tango.”
“Never.”
“Dance Columbine to my Harlequin then.”
“And stand on your knee? I should break it.”
“Try me,” said Huntley.
“Kneel,” said Joan. “Now take my hands. Prepare for the shock.” And she leapt lightly to his knee and posed for a second, poised with one toe on Huntley’s thigh, and was down again.
“Do it again, Joan,” he cried with enthusiasm. “Do it again.”
“Let us invent dances,” cried Aunt Phyllis. “Let us invent dances. Couldn’t we dance charades?”