“Yes,” he answered, staring at her with all his soul.
“Well, come on,” she said. “There’s the music beginning again.”
That appeal may have been made to the general stair-covered company, but he felt that it was to him.
“Come on,” he said to his partner. At the door of the ballroom he found, to his relief, the massive aunt. “Thank you so much for the delightful dance,” he said, bowing as he had seen others do; then he bolted.
Heaven was on his side because just inside the room, and standing for a moment alone, gazing happily about her, was the lovely lady. Could he? Did he dare? His heart was beating in his breast. His knees trembled. He felt as he did when he was summoned to old Thompson’s study. But the fear lest she should move away or someone should come and speak to her, drove him forward. He was at her side.
“I say,” he muttered huskily, “is anybody dancing with you just now?”
“Yes,” he answered, still choking. “I would like to dance with you.”
“Well, you shall,” she said, and suddenly picked him up and whisked him round. What happened after that he never knew. Once, years before, he had escaped from home, gone to the Polchester Fair and ridden on the merry-go-round, ridden on a wonderful coal-black horse all alone under the stars. Something like that earlier experience was this exquisite happiness, delicious movement in which the golden walls, the blazing lights, the glittering, shining floor had their parts. His feet kept no time, they seemed scarcely to touch the floor, but as the music dipped and swung, so he also, floating like a bird, falling like the dying strain of a song, rising like the flight of a star. Suddenly it ceased; he came to earth, breathless, hot and most wonderfully happy. She led him away, holding his hand, to a corner where there was a palm and a little tinkling fountain; they seemed to be quite by themselves.
“Was that all right?” she asked, laughing and fanning herself with a great fan of white feathers.
He could not speak; he gulped and nodded.
She smiled. “Jeremy. That’s a pretty name.” He blushed with pleasure. “Do you go to school yet? I expect you’re good at football.”
How wonderful of her to know that, to ask about the one game that was near his heart. He told her eagerly about it, how he had played half-back twice for the school and had been kicked in the eye and hadn’t cared, and how next year he hoped to be the regular half-back because Trefusis, who had been half for three years, was going to Eton, and he was very young to be half; he’d only be eleven then—and if he stayed on until he was thirteen——