that Miss ———" (I do not catch the name). "Any one can see that." I do not hear the rest, for Paul himself stands before me.
"This is our waltz," he says. "Are you too tired to dance it?"
"No."
I put my hand under his arm, and go back to the ball-room. Already it is growing empty; some one or other has made a move, and like a flock of sheep every one is following, Willing mothers are running about after their unwilling daughters, who have, indeed, the advantage over their anxious parents, inasmuch as they can dance away from the same, "up the sides and down the middle."
Faster and faster goes the music, quicker and quicker go the flying feet; all are enjoying it with a zest that nothing, save the knowledge that it will be quickly over, could possibly give. Into the feet of some of the middle-aged waiting folk the music gets, and partners being forthcoming, they essay a turn or two, at first with some shyness, much as Mr. Aminadab Sleek and Lady Creamly did in "Home," then with vigour; finally they revolve with much enjoyment, perfect in the steps of thirty years ago.
Oh, this last dance! The light, the music, the perfume of the flowers, the long harmonious movement, they are woven into one exquisite sensation that blooms for a little space and dies. And now all too soon the waltz ceases, and delivers over the girls to the custody of their mothers, and they go away torn, spoiled, flushed, with all the carefully built up finery of a few hours ago in ruins. It is always wretched work seeing the last of everything—the lights put out, the daylight on weary faces, and the winding up. So at the foot of the stairs I say good-night to Paul. But he does not take my hand, and as I turn away he walks along by my side.
"Good-night, again," I say, wearily, as I reach my door. "Oh, I am so sleepy!"
