The music was doubly masked. It was masked behind the wings and behind the dance. It did not seem interwoven with movement, but appeared more as a soft background of sound to motion. So it remained through all the first part of the dance which followed unerringly all the traditions of Greek classicism, depending for expression entirely on swaying arms and body. "Who would have thought it!" whispered Lewis. "To do something well at a range of two thousand years! That's more than art; it's genius." "It's not genius," whispered back Lady Derl; "it's just body. What's more, I think I recognize the body." "Well," said Lewis, "what if you do? Play the game." "So I'm right, eh? Oh, I'll play the game, and hate her less into the bargain." So suddenly that it startled, came a crashing chord. The dancer quivered from head to foot, became very still, as though she listened to a call, and then swirled into the rhythm of the music. The watchers caught their breath and held it. The new movement was alien to anything the marbled halls of Greece are supposed to have seen; yet it held a haunting reminder, as though classicism had suddenly given birth to youth. The music swelled and mounted. So did the dance. Wave followed on ripple, sea on wave, and on the sea the foaming, far-flung billow. Limb after limb, the whole supple body of the blind dancer came into play; yet there was no visible tension. Never dead, never hard, but limp,--as limp as flowing, rushing water,--she whirled and swayed through all the emotions until, at the highest pitch of the mounting music, she fell prone, riven by a single, throbbing sob. Down came the curtain. The music faded away in a long, descending sweep. Men shouted hoarsely, unaware of what they were crying out, and women for once clapped to make a noise, and split their gloves. A youth, his hair disordered and a hectic flush in his cheeks, rushed straight for the stage, crying, "Who is she?" Lewis stuck out his foot and tripped him. Great was his fall, and the commotion thereof switched the emotions of the throng back to sanity. Conventional, dogged clapping and shouts of "_Bis! Bis_!" were relied on to bring the curtain up again, and relied on in vain. Once more Mrs. Ruttle-Marter was surrounded and beseeched to use her best efforts. As she acceded, a servant handed Lewis a scribbled note. "Come and take me out of this. Vi," he read. He slipped out behind the servant. In the cab they were silent for a long time. Lewis's eyes kept wandering over Vi, conventional once more, and lazing in her corner. "Well," she drawled at last, "what did you think of it?" "Think of it?" said Lewis. "There were three times when I wanted to shout, 'Hold that pose!' After that--well, after that my brain stopped working." "Do you mean it?" asked Vi. "Mean what?" "About wanting me to hold a pose." "Yes," said Lewis; "of course. What of it?" "What of it? Why, I will. When?" "Do _you_ mean it?" asked Lewis. Vi nodded.