Of Violet dancing with a
beautiful being in a white uniform, and of Rose followed about by
her accepted lover, both of them content with their lot, but with
feet quite on the solid earth.
Celandine was a bit of a flirt, no doubt. She had many partners,
walked in the garden with them impartially, divided her dances, sat
on the stairs. Wherever her yellow draperies moved, nonsense,
merriment, and chatter followed in her wake.
Patricia danced often with Terence. We could see the dark head,
darker and a bit taller than the others, move through the throng,
the diamond arrow gleaming in its lustrous coils. She danced like a
flower blown by the wind. Nothing could have been more graceful,
more stately. The bend of her slender body at the waist, the pose
of her head, the line of her shoulder, the suggestion of dimple in
her elbow - all were so many separate allurements to the kindling eye
of love.
Terence certainly added little to the general brilliancy and gaiety
of the occasion, for he stood in a corner and looked at Patricia
whenever he was not dancing with her, 'all eye when one was present,
all memory when one was gone.'
Chapter XIII. A Penelope secret.
