“This is the most amusing dance I ever was at in my life,” I said, in the first pause that we made.
“I don’t see much difference between it and any other.”
“I do not mean to say that I have not enjoyed myself,” I said, anxious to avoid any semblance of superiority, “but you must admit that one does not usually meet people who are able to sing and dance a waltz at the same time.”
At this point there came a sudden thud on the floor, followed by a slight commotion.
“Hullo! Croly’s let Connie down!” exclaimed Willy, forgetting for an instant his offended dignity.
I was just in time to catch between the dancers a glimpse of Connie struggling, hot and angry, to her feet, while her partner lay prone on his back on the floor. The catastrophe had taken place just in front of Madam O’Neill, whose eyes, now wide open, were bent in a gaze of petrified indignation on Mr. Jackson-Croly. Nugent had not been dancing, and, on seeing Connie fall, had gone round to pick her up, and now made his way towards me.
“Did you see them come down?” he said. “Croly hung on to Connie like a drowning man to a straw, and Connie, not being exactly a straw, nearly drove his head into the floor. She won’t speak to him now, which is rather hard luck, considering she all but killed him. Was I not right in advising you to stay on till the end?”
Exceeding laughter had deprived me of all power of speech, but, in any case, Willy did not give me time to reply.
“Come out of this,” he said roughly; “I’m sick of it.” He gave me his arm as he spoke, and elbowed his way past Nugent out of the room. He walked without speaking through the hall towards the conservatory, but stopped short at the door. “It’s full of people in there. Croly’s study’s the only place where you’ve a chance of being let alone,” he said, turning down a passage, and leading the way into a dreary little room, lighted by a smoky paraffin-lamp, and pervaded by the odour of whiskey. On the inky table, two or three tumblers with spoons in them, and a bottle and decanter, were standing in shining patches of spilt whiskey and water. A few office chairs were drawn up in front of the remains of a smouldering turf fire. Long files of bills hung beside an old coat on some pegs, and Mr. Croly’s cloth slippers showed modestly from under a small horse-hair sofa. A more untempting place to sit in could not well be imagined; but Willy did not seem to notice its discomforts. He sat down on one of the chairs, and began aimlessly to poke the fire; while I, gingerly drawing my skirts together, established myself on the sofa.
“I can’t say I think this is an improvement on the conservatory,” I said at length, seeing that Willy did not seem inclined to talk. “When did you discover it?”