That evening there was a dance at the Winter Palace Hotel, where they were staying. Martin, on his arrival at Cairo, had been as ignorant of dancing as a giraffe; but Lucilla, Mrs. Dangerfield and Maisie having commandeered the Watney-Holcombe’s private sitting room at the Semiramis whenever it suited them, had put him through a severe and summary course. He threw himself devotedly into the new delight. A lithe figure and a quick ear aided him. Before he left Cairo he could dance one-steps and two-steps with the best; and so a new joy was added to his existence. And to him it was a joy infinitely more sensuous and magnetic than to those who from childhood have regarded dancing as a commonplace social pleasure. To understand, you must put yourself in the place of this undeveloped, finely tempered man of thirty. His arm was around the beloved body, his hand clasped hers, the fragrance of her hair was in his nostrils, their limbs moved in perfect unison with the gay tune. His heart sang to the music, his feet were winged with laughter. In young enjoyment, she said with literal truthfulness: “You are a born dancer.” He glowed and murmured glad incoherencies of acknowledgment. “You’re a born all sorts of other things, I believe,” she said, “that only need bringing out. You have a rhythmical soul.” What she meant precisely she did not know, but it sounded mighty fine in Martin’s ears. Ever since his first interview with Fortinbras he had been curiously interested in that vague organ and its evolution. Now it was rhythmical. To explain herself she added: “It is in harmony with the great laws of existence.” A new light shone in his eyes and he held himself proudly. He looked quite a gallant fellow, straight, English, masterful. Her skirts swished the feet of a couple of elderly English ladies sitting by the wall. Her quick woman’s ears caught the remark: “What a handsome couple.” She flushed and her eyes sparkled into his. He replied to her psychological dictum: “At any rate it’s in harmony with the deepest of them all.” “What is that?” “The fundamental law,” said he. They danced the gay dance to the end. They stopped breathless, and laughed into each other’s eyes. She took his arm and they left the ball-room. “Unless you will dance with me again,” he said, “this is my last dance to-night.” “Why?” “I leave you to guess,” said he. “It was as near perfection as could be,” she admitted. “I feel rather like that myself. Perhaps more so; for I don’t want to spoil things even by dancing with you again.” “Do you really mean it?” She nodded frankly, intimately, deliciously. “Let us go outside, away from everybody,” he suggested. They crossed the lounge and reached the Western door. Both were living a little above themselves. “When last we talked sense,” she said, “you spoke about a fundamental law. Come and expound it to me.” They stood on the terrace amid other flushed and happy dancers. “Let us get away from these people.”