There is the murmur of voices mingling two lives in one.

They turn and pass proudly down between the aisles of wondering festal faces.

Ah! the circle is drawing closer.

One more quick whirl to keep them back, O flying skirt and dainty-winged feet! Too late! The music stops.

The tawdry walls shut in again, the vulgar crowds return, they stand pale and quiet, the centre of a ring of breathless admiring, frightened, or forbidding faces.