One day she had been reading to me a pen picture of a famous dancer. The writer had seen the woman in some Spanish theatre. He gave an impassioned description--at least, it sounded impassioned as she read it--of how the people had followed the performer's movements, with enraptured eyes and throbbing pulses, unwilling to lose the slightest gesture. When she had done reading, putting down the book, she stood up in front of me. I sat up to ask what she was going to do.
"I wonder," she said, "if it was anything like this--the dance which that Spanish woman danced."
She danced to me. Dave, you are my "fidus Achates," my other self, my chum, or I would not say a word to you of this. I never shall forget that day. She set my veins on fire. The witch! Without music, under the greenwood tree, all in a moment, for my particular edification, she danced a dance which would have set a crowded theatre in a frenzy. While she danced, I watched her as if mesmerised; I give you my word I did not lose a gesture. When she ceased--with such a curtsy!--I sprang up and ran to her. I would have caught her in my arms; but she sprang back. She held me from her with her outstretched hand.
"Mr. Kempster!" she exclaimed. She looked up at me as demurely as you please.
"I was only going to take a kiss," I cried. "Surely a cousin may take a kiss."
"Not every cousin--if you please."
With that she walking right off, there and then, leaving me standing speechless, and as stupid as an owl.
The next morning as I was in the hall, lighting up for an after breakfast smoke, Aunt Plaskett came up to me. The good soul had trouble written all over her face. She had an open letter in her hand. She looked up at me in a way which reminded me oddly of my mother.
"Charlie," she said, "I'm so sorry."
"Aunt, if you're sorry, so am I. But what's the sorrow?"