Writhing with serpentine grace to the edge of the illuminated area, the dancer leaped back into darkness and the folds of a wrap held by a maid, in which garment she was seen, bowing and laughing, when the lights again blazed up.
Without ceasing to play, changing only the time of the tune, the orchestra swung into a fox-trot. Lanyard glanced across the table to see Cecelia Brooke rising in response to the invitation of dapper Mr. Revel.
In his turn, he rose with Sophie Weringrode. "Be patient with me," he begged. "It is long since I danced to music more frivolous than a cannonade."
"But it is simple," the woman promised—"simple, at least, to one who can dance as you could in the old days. Just follow me till you catch the step. It doesn't matter, anyway; I desire only the opportunity to converse."
Yielding to his arms, she shifted into French when next she spoke.
"You do admirably, my friend. Never again depreciate your dancing. If you knew how one suffers at the feet of these Americans!"
"Excellent!" he said. "Now that is settled: what is it you are instructed to propose to me?"
She laughed softly. "Always direct! Truly you would never shine as a secret agent."
"Not as they shine," Lanyard countered—"in the dark."
"Don't be a fraud. We are what we are, and so are you. Let us not begin to be censorious of one another's methods of winning a living."
"Agreed. But when do we begin to talk business?"
