Round go the dancers, sliding and twirling on the
smooth polished floor, and Mademoiselle Cecile's fingers fly
indefatigably over the keys, as she sits nodding her head to
the music, and smiling as each familiar face glides past her.
Horace, who, after lingering awhile in the courtyard, had come
indoors like the rest of the world, stood apart at the further
end of the room, sufficiently entertained with looking on at
the scene, which had the charm of novelty to his English eyes,
and commenting to himself on the appearance of the dancers.
"But you do wrong not to dance, dear Monsieur, I assure you,"
said his Belgian friend, coming up to him at the end of a
polka, with the elderly Countess, who with her dingy lilac
barege gown exchanged for a dingier lilac silk, and her sandy
hair fuzzier than ever, had been dancing vigorously.
"Mademoiselle Cecile's music is delicious," he continued, "it
positively inspires one; let me persuade you to attempt just
one little dance."
"Indeed, I would rather look on," said Horace; "I can listen to
Mademoiselle Cecile's music all the same, and I do not care
much for dancing, as I told you; besides, I don't know anyone
here.
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