She had suddenly become very much a girl, with the light of a feminine magic gleaming in her mischievous eyes. “Are you flirting with me?” he demanded. “How did you guess?” she asked. The orchestra struck up again. “Shall we dance?” she said, jumping up from the table. “Yes,” he said. “Do you know, the last time I danced with you, I had been drinking, and thought I was dancing with a childhood playmate.” “Aren’t I your childhood playmate?” she asked pausing at the edge of the dancing space. “No, Serpent of the Nile,” he said, taking her in his arms. “And you aren’t a dryad, either,” he went on, as they mingled with the dancers. “You are a water-witch, that’s what you are. You dance like water in the sunlight. You are an exhalation from the salt sea wave. You have no body—which is even worse than having no soul; if I knew the proper magic words to pronounce, this which seems to be your body would dissolve, and I would hold in my arms only a handful of shining mist. You are really not here at all—there is no one here but me, talking to myself. In fact, now I think you must be somebody that I invented in a fanciful mood—a quite imaginary person.” “You seem to have a number of contradictory theories about me,” she said. “Yes—the only thing I am quite sure of is that you don’t really exist.” “Are you sure that _you_ exist?” she mocked. “No, now that I think of it, I’m not sure.” “Perhaps you are an imaginary person that _I_ invented,” she insisted. “If any one could invent me, I think you might.” “Oh, easily!” “That shows how little you know me,” he said. “I don’t think you invented me, after all. You would be prouder of me if you had. Masterpieces like that are not thrown off every day.” “Masterpiece? A mere jeu d’esprit!” “I renounce you utterly,” he said. “You are a base pretender. Besides, you are too young to have thought of such things. I believe you said you were twenty-five.” “I lied, to impress you. I am twenty-four. How old are you?” “I am twenty-four, too,” he said. “Remarkable coincidence!” “Not at all. I am really twenty-seven.” “Devil! How old are you?” “Older than you, anyway.” “I don’t believe you.” “I _am_ an awful liar,” she said, with an air of telling him a secret. “I shall distrust every word you say henceforth.” “Good—then I shall always tell the truth, and you’ll be no wiser. You can’t hold me.” “Who wants to hold you? Not I!” he said. “Oh, don’t you?” “What would I do with you? What are you good for? No, I don’t want you. Go home,” he told her. “Now I sha’n’t.” “All right, stay then.” “I’ve a rehearsal at ten o’clock tomorrow morning,” she remarked. “What’s that to me?” “I ought to go home and get some sleep.” “Then you probably won’t.” “No. I probably won’t.... There’s the waiter bringing our food.” “It can wait,” he said. “You’re in no hurry to get home, I take it?” “No.” The music ended. He led her back to their table.