But she did not regret them when her eyes met his.

He was offering his arm, and she found herself joining in his laugh--a happy, confidential little laugh.

Dorothea cast a nervous glance towards her brother, but Endymion's back was turned.

She saw that her partner noted the look, and half-defiantly she nodded towards the gallery as the French musicians struck into a jolly jigging quick- step with a crash at every third bar.
"_Mais cela me rend folle_," she murmured.
"Do you know the air?
It's the 'Bridge of Lodi,' and we are to dance 'Britannia's Triumph' to it.

Come, Mademoiselle, since the 'Triumph' is nicely mixed, let your captive lead you." Those were days of reels, poussettes, ladies' chains, and figure dancing; honest heel-and-toe, hopping and twisting, hands across and down the middle--an art contemned now, worse than neglected, insulted by the vulgar caricature of "kitchen lancers"; but then seriously practised, delighting the eye, bringing blood to the dancers' cheeks.
For five minutes and more Dorothea was entirely happy.