arrived, and by that time most of the party were dancing.
They danced modern dances, but the orchestra was a muted affair, soft and sensuous. Cathleen, with the Count’s arms round her, wished he would not hold her so tightly that she found it difficult to breathe. She was crushed up against the front of his jacket, and his one idea seemed to be to dance cheek to cheek. All the time he whispered to her of the perfection of her dress, her hair, her eyes ... and she was heartily thankful when a floor show took place, and for a brief period at least she was permitted to sit quietly and watch.
The room was growing very hot, exotic perfumes floating in the atmosphere and heavily overcharging it. Even for the floor show the chattering guests refused to be silent, and Cathleen’s head began to whirl a little, while she actually felt that if this went on much longer she might faint.
The lights went down for a Harlequin dance, and it was then that she felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked round and up and into Edouard’s eyes.
“Time to go home,” he barely breathed in her ear, and as the Count was temporarily preoccupied in another corner she managed to dip silently and swiftly away. Edouard ordered a waiter to fetch her wrap for her, and outside in the silken coolness of the night she was able to draw breath.
Not only that, for the first time that evening she was content. As she looked up at Edouard his eyes were laughing at her, and he drew her unresisting towards one of the pontoons.
“My gondola is waiting,” he said. “It is a bad thing to waste a night like this! I thought we would explore Venice by night. Is that as you would wish ? ”
Cathleen answered breathlessly, “It is as I would wish!”
Cathleen had no idea what the time was when she stumbled into bed at last. It seemed to her quite unimportant in any case, and as her head was full of magic and her eyes were bedazzled by a thousand lights in inky dark water the tiny face of her travelling-clock would have blurred if she had attempted to study it.
She had seen the lights go out in the palazzos and their ghostly shapes bathed in the silver of a late-rising moon. In the daytime they were a harsh red, or merely a faded pink, but by night they came into their own, especially around the hour of dawn when the canals were still and silent, and their spires soared into the starry sky as if reaching for contact with the stars.
Edouard’s boatman had brought a guitar with him, and he had strummed and sung softly for nearly two hours. Cathleen had marvelled at his capacity for dissociating himself from the couple in his boat, the extent of his repertoire, and his tirelessness. Edouard explained that he was paid by the hour, and this piece of intelligence could have ruined the magic, but after being rescued from Francini’s, and having Edouard beside her, nothing, it seemed, could dim the contentment she felt.
They explored all sorts of little side canals, sat quietly watching the flares on the Rialto bridge, crept past landing-stages where couples lingered in the throes of saying goodnight—or rather, good morning. When the moon rose the silver sands of the Lido looked like a strip of silver ribbon; the island of San Giorgio appeared to be actually floating on the water.
Edouard explained casually that he had been prevented from attending Paul’s party by some pressing business, but he did not explain why he had not pressed his prior claim to have dinner alone with Cathleen. Apparently this late-night excursion was intended to make up for any disappointment she might have felt, and although Cathleen would have preferred an explanation—if an apology was too much to hope for—under the influence of the night and the unreal beauty she very quickly ceased to remember that she had even the smallest cause for grievance.
It was enough for her that Edouard had rescued her from the di Rinis, and that the curious anxiety she had felt about him during the whole
They danced modern dances, but the orchestra was a muted affair, soft and sensuous. Cathleen, with the Count’s arms round her, wished he would not hold her so tightly that she found it difficult to breathe. She was crushed up against the front of his jacket, and his one idea seemed to be to dance cheek to cheek. All the time he whispered to her of the perfection of her dress, her hair, her eyes ... and she was heartily thankful when a floor show took place, and for a brief period at least she was permitted to sit quietly and watch.
The room was growing very hot, exotic perfumes floating in the atmosphere and heavily overcharging it. Even for the floor show the chattering guests refused to be silent, and Cathleen’s head began to whirl a little, while she actually felt that if this went on much longer she might faint.
The lights went down for a Harlequin dance, and it was then that she felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked round and up and into Edouard’s eyes.
“Time to go home,” he barely breathed in her ear, and as the Count was temporarily preoccupied in another corner she managed to dip silently and swiftly away. Edouard ordered a waiter to fetch her wrap for her, and outside in the silken coolness of the night she was able to draw breath.
Not only that, for the first time that evening she was content. As she looked up at Edouard his eyes were laughing at her, and he drew her unresisting towards one of the pontoons.
“My gondola is waiting,” he said. “It is a bad thing to waste a night like this! I thought we would explore Venice by night. Is that as you would wish ? ”
Cathleen answered breathlessly, “It is as I would wish!”
Cathleen had no idea what the time was when she stumbled into bed at last. It seemed to her quite unimportant in any case, and as her head was full of magic and her eyes were bedazzled by a thousand lights in inky dark water the tiny face of her travelling-clock would have blurred if she had attempted to study it.
She had seen the lights go out in the palazzos and their ghostly shapes bathed in the silver of a late-rising moon. In the daytime they were a harsh red, or merely a faded pink, but by night they came into their own, especially around the hour of dawn when the canals were still and silent, and their spires soared into the starry sky as if reaching for contact with the stars.
Edouard’s boatman had brought a guitar with him, and he had strummed and sung softly for nearly two hours. Cathleen had marvelled at his capacity for dissociating himself from the couple in his boat, the extent of his repertoire, and his tirelessness. Edouard explained that he was paid by the hour, and this piece of intelligence could have ruined the magic, but after being rescued from Francini’s, and having Edouard beside her, nothing, it seemed, could dim the contentment she felt.
They explored all sorts of little side canals, sat quietly watching the flares on the Rialto bridge, crept past landing-stages where couples lingered in the throes of saying goodnight—or rather, good morning. When the moon rose the silver sands of the Lido looked like a strip of silver ribbon; the island of San Giorgio appeared to be actually floating on the water.
Edouard explained casually that he had been prevented from attending Paul’s party by some pressing business, but he did not explain why he had not pressed his prior claim to have dinner alone with Cathleen. Apparently this late-night excursion was intended to make up for any disappointment she might have felt, and although Cathleen would have preferred an explanation—if an apology was too much to hope for—under the influence of the night and the unreal beauty she very quickly ceased to remember that she had even the smallest cause for grievance.
It was enough for her that Edouard had rescued her from the di Rinis, and that the curious anxiety she had felt about him during the whole
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