Gray said in a low voice to Dysart:  “That’s as much as to admit that they’re engaged, isn’t it?  When a girl doesn’t give a hoot what she does to other men, she’s nailed, isn’t she?”

Dysart did not answer; Rosalie, passing on Grandcourt’s arm, caught the words and turned swiftly, looking over her shoulder at Geraldine.

But Geraldine and Duane had already forgotten the outer world; around them the music swelled; laughter and voice grew indistinct, receding, blending in the vague tumult of violins.  They gazed upon each other with vast content.

“As a matter of fact,” said Duane, “I don’t remember very well how to dance a minuet.  I only wanted to be with you.  We’ll sit it out if you’re afraid I’ll make a holy show of you.”

“Oh, dear,” said Geraldine in pretty distress, “and I let you beguile me when I’m dying to do this minuet.  Duane, you must try to remember! Everybody will be watching us.”  And as her quick ear caught the preliminary bars of the ancient and stately measure: 

“It’s the Menuet d’Exaudet,” she said hurriedly; “listen, I’ll instruct you as we move; I’ll sing it under my breath to the air of the violins,” and, her hand in his, she took the first slow, dainty step in the old-time dance, humming the words as they moved forward: 

    “Gravement
      Noblement
    On s’avance;
      On fait trois pas de cote
      Deux battus, un jete
    Sans rompre la cadence——­”

Then whispered, smiling: 

“You are quite perfect, Duane; keep your head level, dear: 

    “Chassez
    Rechassez
    En mesure! 
    Saluez—­
      Gravement
      Noblement
    On s’avance
    Sans rompre la cadence.

“Quite perfect, my handsome cavalier!  Oh, we are doing it most beautifully”—­with a deep, sweeping reverence; then rising, as he lifted her finger-tips:  “You are stealing the rest of my heart,” she said.

“Our betrothal dance,” he whispered.  “Shall it be so, dear?”

They looked at each other as though they stood there alone; the lovely old air of the Menuet d’Exaudet seemed to exhale from the tremulous violins like perfume floating through the woods; figures of masked dancers passed and repassed them through the orange-tinted glow; there came a vast rustle of silk, a breezy murmur, the scented wind from opening fans, the rattle of swords, and the Menuet d’Exaudet ended with a dull roll of kettle-drums.

A few minutes later he had her in his arms in a deliciously wild waltz, a swinging, irresponsible, gipsy-like thing which set the blood coursing and pulses galloping.

Every succeeding dance she gave to him.  Now and then a tiny cloud of powder-dust floated from her hair; a ribbon from her shoulder-knot whipped his face; her breath touched his lips; her voice, at intervals, thrilled and caressed his ears, a soft, breathless voice, which mounting exaltation had made unsteadily sweet.