A mad dance to a mad tune. He plays and plays on, ever faster, and ever a wilder measure, with strange eerie clanging chords in it which are not like dance notes, until Adelaide prepares to go, and then he suddenly ceases, springs up, and comes with us to our carriage. Adelaide looks white and worn.
Again at the carriage door, “a pair of words” passes between them.
“Milady is tired?” from him, in a courteous tone, as his dark eyes dwell upon her face.
“Thanks, Herr Direktor, I am generally tired,” from her, with a slight smile, as she folds her shawl across her breast with one hand, and extends the other to him.
“Milady, adieu.”
“Adieu, Herr von Francius.”
The ball is over, and I think we have all had enough of it.