So long as he lit the horizon the very
furthest object in it wore a shaft of his light upon its body.
They danced on, not wearing away the shining boards with their feet half
so much as they wore away the thin ice above the enchanted lake.
The Commandant Dormans crossed the room to them.
"She must be drawn. She must go for her portrait. Spare me your partner.
Mademoiselle, we have an artist, a _poilu_, drawing some of the dresses.
Will you come with me and sit for yours?"
She went into the little room and stood for the drawing; the door shut
on her, and she and the artist faced each other. Through the door the
music came softly, and as she stood, hands resting without a breath's
stir on fold, on frill, head bent and wandering eyes, the artist with
twitching face and moving hand looked up and down, up and down, and she
sank, swaying a little upon her rooted feet, into a hypnotised
tranquillity. She did not care what the man put upon the white paper
with his flying hands; he might draw the flowers upon her skirt, but not
the tall blooming flowers within her, growing fabulously like the lilies
in a dream. Her thoughts went out to meet the waves of music floating
through the door; her rooted body held so still that she no longer felt
it, and her spirit hung unbodied in an exaltation between love which
she remembered and love which she expected.
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