And then she knew that she had met the Dancer of the
World. At first she was pleased that her steps fitted his so well,
and then she forgot all about steps and just floated along, on
invisible gauzy wings, unconscious of her will of direction, of his
will of direction. There was nothing in the world but invisible
gauzy wings, which were herself and Jim and the music. And they were
a part of the music and the music was a part of them. It was divine.
"Say, you can dance!" said Jim admiringly when the music stopped.
"I love to dance."
"I should say you might! You dance better than any girl I ever
danced with!"
This, from a military uniform, was praise indeed. Missy blushed and
was moved to hide her exaltation under modesty.
"I guess the reason is because I love it so much. I feel as if it's
the music dancing--not me. Do you feel it that way?" "Never thought
of it that way," answered Jim. "But I don't know but what you're
right. Say, you ARE a funny girl, aren't you?"
But Missy knew that whatever he meant by her being a "funny girl" he
didn't dislike her for it, because he rushed on: "You must let me
have a lot of dances--every one you can spare.
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