She felt his strength, but it was the strength that exalts a woman, a strength that a woman could glory in and not feel embarrassed or self-conscious; a sense of being protected, not overwhelmed, filled her. And through the rhythm of the dance and the complete sympathy which it brought, one for the other, she caught perfectly his poise—the mental suggested through the physical—strong, determined, and so utterly masculine in a big, clean way.
The poetry of the waltz was well defined. The reputation of the Navy was losing nothing at his hands, or rather feet, as they glided in and out among the various couples, gracefully and easily. Both were exalted; it could not have been otherwise. Her supple body yielded instinctively to the guidance of his arm, seemed, indeed, almost a part of it—bodies and minds one in the interpretation of the science of rhythmic motion. Neither spoke until the floor had been circled. Then she turned her head and looked into his face.
"To-morrow?"
"Don't," said Jack, half laughing. "I don't want to think of to-morrow."
"Neither do I," she grimaced, "but I can't help it. I am going to lose my driver."
He smiled grimly, but did not reply.
"And so," she said unconsciously allowing herself to relax in his arm, "what am I going to do?" Her glance was humorously pathetic. "It has been so much fun. But it could n't last, as Trilby said."
"Some day, soon, when I have put on my uniform, may I come here and help you decide?"
"Decide what, pray?"
"You asked me what you were going to do."