“Oh, yes, you did!” replied the visiting girl ironically.
“I'd already asked somebody else. I couldn't!”
And then the visiting girl laughed strangely. Missy knew she knew with whom Raymond had danced that first dance. Why did she laugh? And Raymond--oh, oh! She had seemed to grow rooted to the ground, unable to get away; her heart, her breathing, seemed to petrify too; they hurt her. Why had Raymond danced with her if he didn't want to? And why, why did that girl laugh? She suddenly felt that she must let them know that she heard them, that she must ask why! And, in order not to exclaim the question against her will, she covered her mouth with both hands, and crept silently away from the rose arbour.
Without any definite purpose, borne along by an inner whirlwind of suppressed sobs and utter despair, Missy finally found herself nearer the entrance gate, Fortunately there was nobody to see her; everyone--except those two--was back up there in the glare and noise, laughing and dancing. Laughing and dancing--oh, oh! What ages ago it seemed when she too had laughed and danced!
Oh, why hadn't she gone home with Mrs. Allen and Kitty before her silly pleasure had turned to anguish? But, of course, that was what life was: pain crowding elbows with pleasure always--she had read that somewhere. She was just inevitably living Life.
Consoled a trifle by this reflection and by a certain note of sublimity in her experience, Missy leaned against the gatepost upon which a lantern was blinking its last shred of life, and gazed at the slow-rising, splendid moon.
She was still there when Cousin Jim, walking quickly and his shoes creaking loudly, returned. “Hello!” he said. “What're you doing out here?”
“Why am I funny?” Her tone was a little wistful. “Why, moon-gazing instead of dancing, and everything.”
“But I like to dance too,” emphasized Missy, as if to defend herself against a charge.
“I'll take you up on that. Come straight in and dance the next dance with me!”
Missy obeyed. And then she knew that she had met the Dancer of the World. At first she was pleased that her steps fitted his so well, and then she forgot all about steps and just floated along, on invisible gauzy wings, unconscious of her will of direction, of his will of direction. There was nothing in the world but invisible gauzy wings, which were herself and Jim and the music. And they were a part of the music and the music was a part of them. It was divine.