“You are a born dancer.”
He glowed and murmured glad incoherencies of acknowledgment.
“You’re a born all sorts of other things, I believe,” she said, “that only need bringing out. You have a rhythmical soul.”
What she meant precisely she did not know, but it sounded mighty fine in Martin’s ears. Ever since his first interview with Fortinbras he had been curiously interested in that vague organ and its evolution. Now it was rhythmical. To explain herself she added: “It is in harmony with the great laws of existence.”
A new light shone in his eyes and he held himself proudly. He looked quite a gallant fellow, straight, English, masterful. Her skirts swished the feet of a couple of elderly English ladies sitting by the wall. Her quick woman’s ears caught the remark: “What a handsome couple.” She flushed and her eyes sparkled into his. He replied to her psychological dictum:
“At any rate it’s in harmony with the deepest of them all.”
“What is that?”
“The fundamental law,” said he.
They danced the gay dance to the end. They stopped breathless, and laughed into each other’s eyes. She took his arm and they left the ball-room.
“Unless you will dance with me again,” he said, “this is my last dance to-night.”