"_Mais cela me rend folle_," she murmured.

"Do you know the air? It's the 'Bridge of Lodi,' and we are to dance
'Britannia's Triumph' to it. Come, Mademoiselle, since the 'Triumph'
is nicely mixed, let your captive lead you."

Those were days of reels, poussettes, ladies' chains, and figure
dancing; honest heel-and-toe, hopping and twisting, hands across and
down the middle--an art contemned now, worse than neglected, insulted
by the vulgar caricature of "kitchen lancers"; but then seriously
practised, delighting the eye, bringing blood to the dancers' cheeks.
For five minutes and more Dorothea was entirely happy. M. Raoul--
himself no mean performer--tasted, after his first surprise, something
of the joy of discovery. Who could have guessed that this quiet
spinster, who, as a rule, held herself and walked so awkwardly, would
prove the best partner in the room? He had not the least doubt of it.
Others danced with more abandonment, with more exuberant vigour--
"romped" was his criticism--but none with such _élan_ perfectly
restrained, covering precision with grace. Hands across, cast off and
wheel; as their fingers met again he felt the tense nerves, the throb
of the pulse beneath the glove. Her lips were parted, her eyes and
whole face animated. She was not thinking of him, or of anyone; only
of the swing and beat of the music, the sway of life and colour, her
own body swaying to it, enslaved to the moment and answering no other
call.

"I understand why they call it the Triumph," he murmured, as he led
her back to her seat. She turned her eyes on him as one coming out of
a dream.