SMALL-TALK.
"Of course you must come," said Mary; "it's nonsense to say you can't dance."
Mary is married to my first cousin, Thomas. I looked at Thomas, but saw no hope of support. Thomas labours under the delusion that he can jazz.
"It isn't only the dancing," I protested; "it's the conversational strain. Besides, as one of the original founders of the League to Minimise Gossip amongst General Staff Officers—"
"Rot!" said Thomas; "you simply let your partners do the talking. You needn't even listen. Just say 'Quite' in your most official tone whenever you hear them saying nothing."
Thomas, although my first cousin, is not bright; but I had to go.
For the first few dances I escaped; the crowd round the door was so dense that I saw at once that I should be trampled to death if I attempted to enter. Then I was caught by Mary and introduced to a total stranger.
I suppose there are people who do not mind kicking a total stranger round the room to the strain of cymbals, a motor siren and a frying-pan. I fancy the lady expressed a desire to stop, but as her words were lost in the orchestral pandemonium I realised that as long as the dulcet chords continued conversation was impossible; so we danced on.
Fortunately too, when the interval came, she was full of small-talk.
"Isn't the floor good? And I always like this band."
"Quite," said I.
"Rather sporting of the Smythe-Joneses to give a dance."
"Quite," said I.
"Especially when their eldest boy, the one, you know, who was so frightfully good at golf or something, has just got into a mess with—"
"Quite," said I, while she plunged into a flood of reminiscences. She did not ask whether I could jazz, mainly, I think, because I had already danced with her. I concentrated my thoughts on the best means of avoiding Mary when the music began again, and just threw in an occasional "Quite" to keep the lady in a good temper.
But there was no escaping Mary.
"You must go and dance with Miss Carter," she told me, adducing incontrovertible arguments. I am terrified of Miss Carter, who can only be described as "statuesque" and always does the right thing (which makes her crushing to the verge of discourtesy). I am always being asked if I know whether she is "only twenty-two." It was not without satisfaction that I initiated her into my style of dancing.
To my horror, when we stopped she sat in silence, regarding me with an air of expectant boredom. I racked my brains.
"Good floor, isn't it?" said I.
"Quite," said Miss Carter.
"Jolly good band too."
"Quite," said Miss Carter.
"And rather sporting of the Smythe-Joneses, don't you think?"
She said it again. By this time I felt convinced that all the other couples within hearing were listening to us. Miss Carter is that sort of person.
"Of course," I said with a nervous laugh, "it's rather absurd for me to say anything about it, because, you know, dancing isn't much in my line."
"Quite," said Miss Carter.
That settled it; I felt I must stop her at all costs. I cleared my throat and spoke as distinctly as I could.
"I'm always being asked a conundrum, Miss Carter, and you're the one person who can tell me the true answer. Am I permitted to ask it?"
"Quite," said Miss Carter, for the first time almost smiling. I plucked up courage.
"It's this: how old are you?"
She stopped herself just in time. Her answer was given in a tone which expressed at the same time her contempt for my breach of the conventions and the fact that she was too indifferent to think me worth snubbing.
"Twenty-two," said she.
"Quite," said I.
"HOW WOULD YOU LIKE YOUR HAIR DONE, MADAM?"
"WELL, I WANT TO GET IT DEBOBBED AS SOON AS POSSIBLE."