Slowly the crimson lightened. The day was coming, and the silent-flitting
moth of night was turning into a butterfly of purest gold. The scarf
still floated about her like a gold-edged cloud. The giddy whirl was
over. She came to rest, poised, quivering in the light of the newly-risen
sun, every line of her exquisite body in the accord of a perfect
symmetry. Yes, she was amazing; she was unique. Wherever she went, the
spell still held. But to-night she was as one inspired. She did not see
her spellbound audience. She was dancing for one alone. She was as a
woman who waits for her lover.
In some fashion this fact communicated itself to her worshippers. They
guessed that somewhere near that dazzling figure the stranger whom no one
knew was watching. Insensibly, through the medium of the dancer, his
presence made itself felt. When that wonderful dance of the dawn was over
and the thunder of applause had died away, they looked around, asking who
and where he was. But no one knew, and though curiosity was rife it
seemed unlikely that it would be satisfied that night.
Up in the gallery Toby drew a deep breath as of one coming out of a
trance, and turned towards the man beside her. The light had been turned
on in the _salon_ below, and it struck upwards on her face, showing it
white and weary.
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