It was a wonderful dinner. When coffee came, the lights flashed up, a curtain was lifted, and Mrs. Dudley danced. The lights rose and fell as she danced, and with them the music. Every one broke into a low humming with the music. Then she sank down, and the lights went out, and we sat in the dark until she came back to dance again. "I shall never be happy," said Mr. Dudley as we sat so, "until I see you dance, in a costume which I shall design for you."
"Will you dance with me?" I asked him. That was the most fun—that I could think of things to say, just the way Lena Curtsy used to—only now they were never the kind that made anybody look shocked.
"Make the appointment in the Fiji Islands or in Fez," he said; "and there I will be."
Mr. Gerald came and sat down beside me.
"Oh, very well, Massy—to the knife," says Mr. Dudley.
It was half after nine when we left for the opera. The second act had begun, which seemed to me a wicked waste of tickets. But even then Mr. Gerald had no intention of listening. He sat beside me and talked.
"Cosma," he said, "I'm about ten times as miserable as usual to-night. Can't you say something."
I said, "Tell me: Is that what they call a minor? Because I want those for my heaven."
"I want you for my heaven," Mr. Gerald observed. "Dear, I'm terribly in earnest. Don't make me run a race with that bally ass."
"Don't race," I said. "Listen."