We get older, every day:
Soon we’ll be too old to play.
(Honey, there’ll be dancin’ in the sky!)
’Nother night we’ll both be dead:
’Nother couple dance instead:
Honey! Lift your pretty head—
Honey, there’ll be dancin’ in the sky!”
Billy-boy sank panting into a chair, and it was not until Verity had finished applauding that she had time to perceive the intruder. The perfection of Billy-boy’s ‘turn’ must have softened her heart, for she rose with a smile and offered Grant a welcoming hand.
“I’m afraid you find us rather busy to-night. Are you wanting anything important? If not, won’t you sit down and listen to a few of our items? You may be able to make some suggestions.”
Grange, Larrupper’s chauffeur, offered the vicar his seat, which the latter took after a moment’s hesitation, and sat in silence while Larrupper himself, looking rather sheepish, doled out a fresh batch of copies. He hated the job frankly. Larruppin’ Lyndesay hadn’t an ounce of either self-consciousness or pride, but he did feel a bit of an ass distributing “My sweet sweeting” and more of that ilk to his own chauffeur. He had a strong suspicion that Grange thought him an ass, likewise, for all that he looked like a bit of the furniture. Besides, Grange could sing, and Larry couldn’t. Perhaps that was the rub.