He linked his arm through the other man's. Moran allowed himself to be propelled along, dazedly. Still protesting, he found himself in the elevator with a dozen red-cheeked, scrubbed-looking jackies. At which point Moran, game in the face of horror, accepted the inevitable. He gave a characteristic jerk from the belt.
"Me, I'll try anything oncet. Lead me to it."
The elevator stopped at the ninth floor. "Out here for the jackies' dance," said the elevator boy.
The two stepped out with the others. Stepped out gingerly, caps in hand. A corridor full of women. A corridor a-flutter with girls. Talk. Laughter. Animation. In another moment the two would have turned and fled, terrified. But in that half-moment of hesitation and bewilderment they were lost.
A woman approached them hand outstretched. A tall, slim, friendly looking woman, low-voiced, silk-gowned, inquiring.
"Good-evening!" she said, as if she had been haunting the halls in the hope of their coming. "I'm glad to see you. You can check your caps right there. Do you dance?"
Two scarlet faces. Four great hands twisting at white caps in an agony of embarrassment. "Why, no ma'am."
"That's fine. We'll teach you. Then you'll go into the ball room and have a wonderful time."
"But—" in choked accents from Moran.
"Just a minute. Miss Hall!" She beckoned a diminutive blonde in blue. "Miss Hall, this is Mr.—ah—Mr. Moran. Thanks. And Mr.?—yes—Mr. Kamps. Tyler Kamps. They want to learn to dance. I'll turn them right over to you. When does your class begin?"