Old Nick shook his head and tried to look interested.
"Shouted out at the top of his voice so all the street could hear him, 'No, I'm damned if you do!' Nice sort of father-in-law that, eh?"
"There's a dance on at the Seamen's Union to-morrow, Smith. You're going, I suppose?"
Smith brightened up at once. "Yes, of course, we must go; you must come along too, Nickelsen. But—but—isn't old Prois chairman of the committee?"
"Quite so—and for that very reason all the more chance of your meeting your—young lady, I was going to say."
"Then you'll come?"
"Me? Go to a dance, with my gout and all? Well, I don't know, perhaps I might. Get myself up spick and span, and have my corns cut specially for the occasion—I might pass in a crowd, what?"
The dance took place, and on the following day Old Nick sat pondering and trying to remember what had happened after twelve o'clock, his memory being somewhat defective.
No—it was no good. He could not remember a thing. He had a vague recollection of talking to Tulla Prois, and saying a whole lot of extravagantly affectionate things, but beyond that all was confusion.
"Only hope I didn't make a scene, that's all. H'm—Puh—weakness of mine—infernal nuisance. And I don't seem to get any better—oh, well, what's the odds after all!"