Barres and Dulcie danced until the music, twice revived, expired in husky dissonance, and a new disc was substituted by Westmore.
“By heaven!” he said, “I’ll dance this with my godchild or I’ll murder you, Garry. Back up, there!—you soulless monopolist!” And Dulcie, half laughing, half vexed, was swept away in Westmore’s vigorous arms, with a last, long, appealing look at Barres.
The latter danced in turn with his feminine guests, as in duty bound—in pleasure bound, as far as concerned Thessalie.
“And to think, to think,” he repeated, “that you and I, who once trod the moonlit way, June-mad, moon-mad, should be dancing here together once more!”
“Alas,” she said, “though this is June again, moon 145 and madness are lacking. So is the enchanted river and your canoe. And so is that gay heart of mine—that funny, careless little heart which was once my comrade, sending me into a happy gale of laughter every time it counselled me to folly.”
“What is the matter, Thessa?”
“Garry, there is so much the matter that I don’t know how to tell you.... And yet, I have nobody else to tell.... Is that maid of yours German?”
“No, Finnish.”
“You can’t be certain,” she murmured. “Your guests are all American, are they not?”