Again she assents, but more emphatically.
“Then,” say I, ironically, “see where you can find a new blockhead, my muscular fairy! My shoulders are not well yet!”
Her arms move—hands there are none visible in the long, roomy sleeves—they are stretched out to me as if in mute appeal. A cold shiver runs down my back, I know not why.
“If I dance with you again,” I angrily exclaim, “you will not fare quite so well as last time! I am firmer on my feet to-night than I was last week!”
She presses her arms to her breast, something like a tremor agitates the gray shape, and her head is slightly raised. Her position and demeanor, though she utters not a word, denote intense longing.
The blood rushes to my head—I must go a step nearer to her—I must!
“If I dance with you, it will be only on one condition!”
With a profound sigh her bosom heaves, her arms fall to her side, her body is humbly bent forward as if in complete surrender, and as if to say: Ask what you will!
“My condition is that you afterward reveal yourself.”
She nods stiffly, like a marionette.