"Heart of hearts," whispered Maurice in the swirl of the dance.
"Oh, Maurice, I do love you," she sighed.
Now the moments fled faster as the beat quickened for the climax of the dance. Maurice held Jenny closer than before, sweeping her on through a mist of blurred lights in which her eyes stood out clear as jewels from the pallor of her face. Round the room they went, round and round, faster and faster. Jenny was now dead white. Her lips were parted slightly, her fingers strained at Maurice's sleeve. He, with flushed cheeks, wore elation all about him. No dream could have held the multitude of imaginations that thronged their minds; and when it seemed that life must end in the sharpness of an ecstasy that could never be recorded in mortality, the music stopped. There was a sound of many footsteps leaving the ballroom. Jenny leaned on Maurice's arm.
"You're tired," he said. "Jolly good dance that?"
"Wasn't it glorious? Oh, Maurice, it was lovely."
"Come and sit in the box when you've had some champagne, and I'll dance with the girls while you're resting. Shall I?"
Presently Maurice was tearing round the room with Maudie, both of them laughing very loudly, while Jenny sat back in a faded arm-chair thinking of the old Covent Garden days and nights, and wondering how she could ever have fancied she was happy before she met Maurice. In a few minutes Fuz came into the box to ask if she wanted to dance.
"It's just as well, perhaps," he said gravely. "For I am what you would describe as a very unnatural dancer."
"Oh, Fuz," she laughed; "are you? Oh, you must dance once round the room with me before it's over. Oh, you must. It tickles my fancy, the idea of Fuz dancing."
"Oh, Fuz, doesn't anyone else ever laugh at you, only me?"
"Aren't Maurice and Maudie making a terrible noise?"
"They're certainly laughing loud enough," Fuz agreed. "But Maurice is always in spirits. I don't think he knows the meaning of depression."
"Doesn't he then!" Jenny exclaimed. "I think he gets _very_ depressed sometimes!"
"Not deeply. It's never more than a passing mood."
"That's quite right. It is a mood. But he works himself up into a state over his moods."
"Tell me, dear Jane," said Castleton suddenly. "No, on second thoughts, I won't ask."