At that very moment the boy who was driving the butter woman’s wagon began to whistle. It was a thin, rich little tune, a tune that pours slowly, like honey. I am not musical but I can always tell honey-tunes. At sound of it Pelleas’ face lighted as if at a prescription of magic.
“Etarre—Etarre!” he cried; “do you hear that tune?”
“Yes,” I said breathlessly.
“Do you remember—?”
“No,” said I, just as breathlessly.
“It’s the Varsovienne,” cried Pelleas, “that we danced together the night that I met you, Etarre.”
With that Pelleas caught me about the waist and hummed the air with all his might and whirled me down the long room.
“Pelleas!” I struggled. “I don’t know it. Let me go.”
For it has been forty years since I have danced or thought of dancing and I could not in the least remember the silly step.
Leaving me to regain my breath as best I might Pelleas was off up the room, around chairs and about tables, stepping long and short, turning, retreating, and singing louder and louder.