"Mine, you know," he said smilingly.
She came out to him laughing, stretching her arm in a sinuous way, quite unconscious of the charming figure she made. She had a way of throwing back her head which revealed her neck in beautiful lines. She looked into Eugene's eyes simply and unaffectedly, returning his smile with one of her own. And when they began to dance he felt as though he had never really danced before.
What was it the poet said of the poetry of motion? This was it. This was it. This girl could dance wonderfully, sweetly, as a fine voice sings. She seemed to move like the air with the sound of the two-step coming from an ambush of flowers, and Eugene yielded himself instinctively to the charm—the hypnotism of it. He danced and in dancing forgot everything except this vision leaning upon his arm and the sweetness of it all. Nothing could equal this emotion, he said to himself. It was finer than anything he had ever experienced. There was joy in it, pure delight, an exquisite sense of harmony; and even while he was congratulating himself the music seemed to hurry to a finish. Suzanne had looked up curiously into his eyes.
"You like dancing, don't you?" she said.
"I do, but I don't dance well."
"Oh, I think so!" she replied. "You dance so easily."
"It is because of you," he said simply. "You have the soul of the dance in you. Most people dance poorly, like myself."
"I don't think so," she said, hanging on to his arm as they walked toward a seat. "Oh, there's Kinroy! He has the next with me."
Eugene looked at her brother almost angrily. Why should circumstances rob him of her company in this way? Kinroy looked like her—he was very handsome for a boy.
"Well, then, I have to give you up. I wish there were more."