Then she started and the room seemed to swim around her, the lights, the flowers, the black suits of the men, the gay, butterfly robes of the women seemed to be blending in an inextricable maze.
Her heart seemed beating in her ears, so loudly it sounded.
She had caught a flitting glimpse of a man's form standing just beyond her aunt. It was he around whom the excited little throng buzzed and eddied.
He was tall, straight, graceful as a young palm tree, handsome as Apollo, in his elegant evening dress.
His head, crowned with fair, curling locks, was held aloft with half-haughty grace; his Grecian profile, clearly-cut as a cameo head, was turned toward Xenie, and she saw the smile that curved the fair, mustached lips, the flash in the proud, blue eyes.
For a moment she lost the step, and hung droopingly on her partner's arm.
"You are tired," he said, stopping and looking down into her deathly-white face. "Pardon me, I kept you on the floor too long; but your step was so perfect, the music so entrancing, I forgot myself."
He was leading her to a seat as he spoke. She came back to herself with a quick start.
"No, do not blame yourself," she answered. "The fact is I am not accustomed to waltzing of late. This is the first time for almost two years, and it is so easy to—to grow dizzy—to lose one's head."
"Yes, indeed, it is," he answered. "Shall I get you a glass of water?"