"The music is still whirling in my head," he said, coming to her. "I cannot get over tonight." He spoke softly—almost in a whisper—and threw his cigar away. Suzanne's voice was low.
She looked at him and filled her deep broad chest with air. "Oh!" she sighed, throwing back her head, her neck curving divinely.
"One more dance," he said, taking her right hand and putting his left upon her waist.
She did not retreat from him, but looked half distrait, half entranced in his eyes.
"Without music?" she asked. She was almost trembling.
"You are music," he replied, her intense sense of suffocation seizing him.
They moved a few paces to the left where there were no windows and where no one could see. He drew her close to him and looked into her face, but still he did not dare say what he thought. They moved about softly, and then she gurgled that soft laugh that had entranced him from the first. "What would people think?" she asked.
They walked to the railing, he still holding her hand, and then she withdrew it. He was conscious of great danger—of jeopardizing a wonderfully blissful relationship, and finally said: "Perhaps we had better go."
"Yes," she said. "Ma-ma would be greatly disturbed if she knew this."