Milburd gives in, unexpectedly, and relinquishes her.
Aha! we are off! Round and round . . . carpet rather bad to dance on . . . up and down . . . I feel that we are just skirting chairs, and that another inch will bring down the fire-irons——we put on the pace . . . I haven't danced for . . . well, for some considerable time . . . we nearly come bang against the piano . . . my fault . . beg pardon . . . but we won't stop . . .
“Oh no!” says Bella . . . and we don't stop.
A little quieter, just to, as it were, regain consciousness, for everything is becoming blurred—(jerky sentences while dancing) . . . “It's more difficult . . . to steer when . . . there are a few . . . than when . . .” “Yes,” says Miss Bella, who quite understands. (Myself tenderly.) “Do you . . . like dancing?” . . . “Yes,” . . . (whirl round, up and down . . . then) . . . “This dance?” . . . What? . . . (whirl round just to get the steam up again for the question, and put it sotto voce, finding myself close to her ear—such a pretty little ear—made to be whispered into). “Do you like this dance?” . . . “Very much.” (My heart is fluttering nervously, like a stray bird under a skylight) . . . “With anyone?” . . . (No answer . . . My question means do you prefer ME to dance with, and not only to dance with, but . . .)
The music ceases. Medford is tired. We all thank him.
If it hadn't been for the gong . . .
But at all events the wet morning is over.
“HOW DO YOU LIKE MY FIZZ”