“I can't dance,” he said, “that is, I have only danced once, but—if you would try with me!”
She put her hand on his arm, and they began. She danced, light as a feather, eyes shining, feet flying, her body bent a little forward. It was not a great success at first, but as soon as the time had got into Harz's feet, they went swinging on when all the rest had stopped. Sometimes one couple or another slipped through the window to dance on the veranda, and came whirling in again. The lamplight glowed on the girls' white dresses; on Herr Paul's perspiring face. He constituted in himself a perfect orgy, and when the music stopped flung himself, full length, on the sofa gasping out:
“My God! But, my God!”
Suddenly Christian felt Harz cling to her arm.
Glowing and panting she looked at him.
“Giddy!” he murmured: “I dance so badly; but I'll soon learn.”
Greta clapped her hands: “Every evening we will dance, every evening we will dance.”
Harz looked at Christian; the colour had deepened in her face.
“I'll show you how they dance in my village, feet upon the ceiling!” And running to Dawney, he said:
“Hold me here! Lift me—so! Now, on—two,” he tried to swing his feet above his head, but, with an “Ouch!” from Dawney, they collapsed, and sat abruptly on the floor. This untimely event brought the evening to an end. Dawney left, escorting Cousin Teresa, and Harz strode home humming The Blue Danube, still feeling Christian's waist against his arm.