He had not intended to give this particular remark a serious turn; but, now that she was so near him, he looked into her eyes steadily but with a soft appeal and said,
"Yes, why?"
They had come out from behind the palms.
He had put his hand to her waist.
His right arm held her left extended arm to arm, palm to palm.
Her right hand was on his shoulder, and she was close to him, looking into his eyes.
As they began the gay undulations of the waltz she looked away and then down without answering.
Her movements were as light and airy as those of a butterfly.
He felt a sudden lightness himself, communicated as by an invisible current.
He wanted to match the suppleness of her body with his own, and did.
Her arms, the flash and glint of the crimson sequins against the smooth, black silk of her closely fitting dress, her neck, her glowing, radiant hair, all combined to provoke a slight intellectual intoxication.
She was so vigorously young, so, to him, truly beautiful.
"But you didn't answer," he continued.
"Isn't this lovely music?"
He pressed her fingers.
She lifted shy eyes to him now, for, in spite of her gay, aggressive force, she was afraid of him.
His personality was obviously so dominating.
Now that he was so close to her, dancing, she conceived of him as something quite wonderful, and yet she experienced a nervous reaction—a momentary desire to run away.
"Very well, if you won't tell me," he smiled, mockingly.
He thought she wanted him to talk to her so, to tease her with suggestions of this concealed feeling of his—this strong liking.
He wondered what could come of any such understanding as this, anyhow?
"Oh, I just wanted to see how you danced," she said, tamely, the force of her original feeling having been weakened by a thought of what she was doing.
He noted the change and smiled.
It was lovely to be dancing with her.
He had not thought mere dancing could hold such charm.
"You like me?" he said, suddenly, as the music drew to its close.
She thrilled from head to toe at the question.
A piece of ice dropped down her back could not have startled her more.
It was apparently tactless, and yet it was anything but tactless.
She looked up quickly, directly, but his strong eyes were too much for her.
"Why, yes," she answered, as the music stopped, trying to keep an even tone to her voice. She was glad they were walking toward a chair.
"I like you so much," he said, "that I have been wondering if you really like me."
There was an appeal in his voice, soft and gentle. His manner was almost sad.
"Why, yes," she replied, instantly, returning to her earlier mood toward him.
"You know I do."
"I need some one like you to like me," he continued, in the same vein.
"I need some one like you to talk to.
I didn't think so before—but now I do.
You are beautiful—wonderful."
"We mustn't," she said.
"I mustn't. I don't know what I'm doing."
She looked at a young man strolling toward her, and asked:
"I have to explain to him.
He's the one I had this dance with."
Cowperwood understood. He walked away.
He was quite warm and tense now—almost nervous.
It was quite clear to him that he had done or was contemplating perhaps a very treacherous thing.
Under the current code of society he had no right to do it.
It was against the rules, as they were understood by everybody. Her father, for instance—his father—every one in this particular walk of life.
However, much breaking of the rules under the surface of things there might be, the rules were still there.