a, of Italy, and Spain: and they had roused him and
all London to enthusiasm over dances eccentric, original, exquisite, or
wild. But never had there been anything like this. Stephen had not known
that a dance could move him as this did. He was roused, even thrilled by
its poetry, and the perfect beauty of its poses, its poises. It must, he
supposed, have been practised patiently, perhaps for years, yet it
produced the effect of being entirely unstudied. At all events, there
was nothing in the ordinary sense "professional" about it. One would
say--not knowing the supreme art of supreme grace--that a joyous child,
born to the heritage of natural grace, might dance thus by sheer
inspiration, in ecstasy of life and worship of the newly felt beauty of
earth. Stephen did know something of art, and the need of devotion to
its study; yet he found it hard to realize that this awakened marble
loveliness had gone through the same performance week after week, month
after month, in America and England. He preferred rather to let himself
fancy that he was dreaming the whole thing; and he would gladly have
dreamed on indefinitely, forgetting the smoky atmosphere, forgetting the
long-haired students and all the incongruous surroundings. The gracious
dream gave him peace and pleasure such as he had not known since the
beginning of the Northmorland case.

Through the house there was a hush, unusual at the Folies Bergeres.
People hardly knew what to make of the dances, so different from any
ever seen in a theatre of Paris. Stephen was not alone in feeling the
curious dream-spell woven by music and perfection of beauty. But the
light changed. The moonlight slowly faded. Dancer and music faltered, in
the falling of the dark hour before dawn. The charm was waning. Soft
notes died, and quavered in apprehension. The magic charm of the moon
was breaking, had broken: a crash of cymbals and the studio was dark.
Then light began to glimmer once more, but it was the chill light of
dawn, and growing from purple to blue, from blue to rosy day, it showed
the marble statues fast locked in marble sleep again. On the platform
stood the girl with uplifted arm, holding her cup, now, to catch the
wine of sunrise; and on the delicately chiselled face was a faint smile
which seemed to hide a secret. When the first ray of yellow sunshine
gilded the big skylight, a door up-stage opened and the sculptor came
in, wearing his workman's blouse. He regarded his hand