“I like you!” she exclaimed.
The suddenness of the incident, the impossibility of what was happening, made Neale dumb. He felt her, saw her as he were in a dream. Her face possessed a peculiar fascination. The sleepy, seductive eyes; the provoking half-smile, teasing, alluring; the red lips, full and young through the carmine paint; all of her seemed to breathe a different kind of a power than he had ever before experienced—unspiritual, elemental, strong as some heady wine. She represented youth, health, beauty, terribly linked with evil wisdom, and a corrupt and irresistible power, possessing a base and mysterious affinity for man.
The breath and the charm and the pestilence of her passed over Neale like fire.
“Sweetheart, will you dance with me?” she asked, with her head tilted to one side and her half-open veiled eyes on his.
“No,” replied Neale. He put her from him, gently but coldly.
She showed slow surprise. “Why not? Can’t you dance? You don’t look like a gawk.”
“Yes, I can dance,” replied Neale.
“Then will you dance with me?” she retorted, and red spots showed through the white on her cheeks.
“I told you no,” replied Neale.
His reply transported her into a sudden fury. She swung her hand viciously. Hough caught it, saving Neale from a sounding slap in the face.