She hung a moment in the door of the brilliantly lighted room. Many people were moving within the blaze of lamps, under the crystal chandeliers, the full skirts of the women balancing and floating, the side-whiskers and white cravats of the men bowing above. Then she entered the light.
In an instant Sam Adams was coming forward, lifting both his arms in boisterous welcome. There was a constant red laugh on his face.
“Come late, would you,” he shouted, “like royalty.”
He seized her hands and led her forward. He opened his mouth wide when he spoke, and the effect of the warm, dark opening behind the brown whiskers was disturbing. But she was floating into the throng on his arm. He was very gallant.
“Now then,” he said, taking her card to write down the dances, “I’ve got carte blanche, haven’t I?”
“Mr Whiston doesn’t dance,” she said.
“I am a lucky man!” he said, scribbling his initials. “I was born with an amourette in my mouth.”
He wrote on, quietly. She blushed and laughed, not knowing what it meant.
“Why, what is that?” she said.
“It’s you, even littler than you are, dressed in little wings,” he said.