Page:The White Peacock, Lawrence, 1911.djvu/155

Rh great black stain of sweat on her leathern belt where his hand had held her, he looked up at her from his position on the sofa, with a peculiar glance of triumph, smiling.

“You great brute,” she said, but her voice was not as harsh as her words. He gave a deep sigh, sat up, and laughed quietly.

“Another?” he said.

“Will you dance with me?”

“At your pleasure.”

“Come then—a minuet.”

“Don’t know it.”

“Nevertheless, you must dance it. Come along.”

He reared up, and walked to her side. She put him through the steps, even dragging him round the waltz. It was very ridiculous. When it was finished she bowed him to his seat, and, wiping her hands on her handkerchief, because his shirt, where her hand had rested on his shoulders, was moist, she thanked him.

“I hope you enjoyed it,” he said.

“Ever so much,” she replied.

“You made me look a fool—so no doubt you did.”

“Do you think you could look a fool? Why you are ironical! Ca marche! In other words, you have come on. But it is a sweet dance.”

He looked at her, lowered his eyelids, and said nothing.

“Ah, well,” she laughed, “some are bred for the minuet, and some for——”

“—Less tomfoolery,” he answered.

“Ah—you call it tomfoolery because you cannot do it. Myself, I like it—so——”