"May I offer you some refreshment, ma'am?" he said, remembering his manners.
"The most grateful refreshment would be fresh air, don't you think, Captain?" said Anne.
She turned toward that side of the room which had no wall, opening onto a side porch, where the last breaths of the sea breeze were entering; her hand was on his arm again, and she glided along beside him across the ballroom. Out on the porch, with the light streaming behind her, she rested her hands on the rail and looked out across the town to the sea. The moon illuminated the bay, and the ships riding there at anchor, while from the garden before them arose a dozen strains of music — an orchestra which rivaled that of the ballroom — as frogs and crickets and a drowsy bird or two all chirped and croaked in unison.
"You dance very well indeed, Captain," said Anne.
That singular clearness of head which had come over him saved him from imperiling the good impression with a mock-modest reply.
"No one could dance otherwise with you, ma'am," he said.
"And you pay a pretty compliment, too," said Anne; there was more music in her chuckle, and Peabody was drunk with music.
"I speak the truth," said Peabody, with a sincerity which was a greater compliment still.
"You must save those pretty speeches for Madame Clair," said Anne.
"And who is she?"
"How hurt she would be to hear that, after ogling you from behind her fan for five minutes! She is the lady who danced with my father."
"I remember her now."
"She is looking for her fourth husband."
"Where is he?"
"On earth somewhere, I have no doubt. But I do not know who he is, nor does Madame Clair, yet. Nevertheless, she will meet him soon enough. Perhaps she met him this evening."
"God forbid!" said Peabody, fervently, at the prospect of becoming Madame Clair's fourth husband.
"She waltzes beautifully. You should ask her for the pleasure of a dance."
"I can't waltz."
"Now that is serious, Captain Peabody. Naval officers should never visit neutral harbors without knowing the waltz. As ambassadors of good will — as diplomats on occasion — the knowledge would be of the highest advantage."
Mademoiselle de Villebois' expression was demure, but somewhere there was a hint of a twinkle, and Peabody could not tell whether he was being teased or not.
"I shall take lessons at once," said Peabody.
As he spoke, there came low music from the violins in the ballroom.
"At once?" asked Anne.
It was a waltz which the violins were playing; Anne cast a hesitant glance behind her, for etiquette demanded that she should return to the ballroom the moment the next dance following the cotillion began. And yet — and yet . . .
"I am ready to learn," said Peabody.
This extraordinary clarity of mind was quite amazing; it was intoxicating enough almost to defeat its own purpose.
"One two three four five six," said Anne. She held up her arms as if she were in a partner's hold and danced by herself to the music. "You slide the feet. You make the turn smooth as you can."
She stopped, facing him, her hands still raised, and Peabody automatically held her.
"One two three four five six," said Anne. "Turn smoothly. Oh, that's better."
If walking with Anne on his arm had been an amazing sensation, dancing with her in his arms was more amazing still. Peabody had not only been honest, he had been right when he said no one could help dancing well with Anne. She was like an armful of thistledown. The mere touch of her took off the weight from one's feet in a mysterious way; perhaps she was subtly guiding him so that he did not bump into the furniture on the porch, but if so she did it without his knowing, perhaps without her knowing. They slid smoothly over the mahogany floor, the violins inside wailing their hearts out under the bows of the Negro musicians. Anne ceased to count aloud; her expression as Peabody looked down at her was a trifle distracted, as if she were seeing visions. The sight of her face, the round, firm chin and the soft mouth, the strange inspired calm of her expression, gave new lightness to Peabody's feet. He was a man inspired.
The music came to a heartbroken end.
"Oh!" said Anne, standing still in his arms looking up into his face.
Next moment Peabody kissed her, quite unaware, until lip met lip, that he was doing so. She kissed him in return, her hands on his shoulders; for Peabody everything had the awesome clarity of a dream — the touch of her, the scent of her, had an excruciating pleasure for him such as he had never known or dreamed of before. He looked down at her bewildered; he had never thought of a love affair as being as simple as this, as free from the implications of sin, as inevitable and as natural as this.
"Oh!" said Anne again, but this time there was no disappointment in the voice, only wonder.
"I — I kissed you," said Peabody. He was surprised at himself for being able to use such a word to a woman; it was like those dreams where one found oneself naked and unashamed amid a crowd of people.
"Yes," said Anne, "and I kissed you."
They were still in each other's arms, the one looking up, the other down; with her left hand still on his shoulder she began to rearrange his neckcloth with her right.
"Shall I tell you?" she went on, her eyes no longer looking into his, but instead intent on the neckcloth.
"Shall you tell me what?" asked Peabody.
"That other time when I saw you — on board the Tigresse — when you looked at me — I said to myself, 'That is the man that I would like to kiss.' And then I said to myself that I was foolish, because I had kissed no one except my father, and how should I know? But you see I did know."
She looked up again at him, a little fearful as to the effect of this confession, and Peabody's senses deserted him. All that boasted clarity of mind, all that extreme consciousness, vanished utterly. It was like a wave closing over his head, as he kissed her again. He found himself trembling as the wave subsided; he was a little frightened as he suddenly realized, for the first time, the depths of passion that there were within him. With a hint of panic he released her, and stood staring at her in the faint light. He was so intent on his own problems that he paid no attention to the footsteps that he heard approaching; and that was as well, because it saved him from betraying himself with a guilty start when one of the newcomers began to speak.
"Anne!" said Madame d'Ernee; she began to speak in French, but corrected herself and went on in English. "I did not know you were here. Madame Clair will look after you while I am not in the ballroom."
Peabody blinked at her, recovering his wits. The Countess was not angry. It even seemed incomprehensibly as if she were a little embarrassed, and then Peabody saw clearly again and realized that she actually was. Standing behind her was Davenant, and Davenant was a little awkward and self-conscious too. He twitched at his neckcloth and shot his cuffs. It certainly was not to look for Anne that the Countess and Davenant had come out onto the porch.
"Yes, Aunt," said Anne, perfectly steadily, albeit a little subdued. "Shall we go in again, Captain Peabody?"