“And so if we don’t enjoy ourselves,” proposes Rose-Marie, a nervous débutante, “we can keep to our own party....” The car moves slowly forward in a long queue.
Peter is not enthusiastic. Both the Lester boys are under twenty, and have pimples on their chins. She wishes—in the cloakroom now, and in the approved fashion letting her wrap fall languidly from her shoulders, to be caught by dexterous and silent attendants—that the thought of Merle hostess of this magnificence, did not remove her so very far from the Merle of their adventure days.
The staircase again, and conventional figures in black and white, struggling with their glove-buttons. Which of them is Logan Thane? “Wait for me,” pleads Rose-Marie, still busy with her powder-puff. A burst of music from the ballroom, striking thrilling response from the tuned-up senses. Events moving with the swift unreality of a cinema. The ballroom swims forward and engulfs Peter with its hum of talk, rising and falling like waves on a flat beach; its light mellowed by blossoms; blossoms made translucent by light. Impression of a group just within the doorway; Merle’s grandmother, from a mere solicitous voice in Lancaster Gate: “Es-tu fatiguée, chérie?” knuckles that tapped the door and a rustle that swept the staircase,—now materialized into diamonds, and Point d’Alençon, and dignified, almost royal, reception of the entering guests. Mademoiselle des Essarts, a little to her left, beauty in faint old-rose and lilac, silver-threaded; a tiny moon-shaped black patch below the lip; a bouquet of lilies of the valley. Mademoiselle des Essarts—“Elle est exquise,” whisper the diplomats and the ambassadors and the consuls, beribboned and bearded, who surround Madame, and lend a contrast of French court circles to the assembly of bostoning twentieth-century youth.
Mademoiselle des Essarts receives Miss Kyndersley with grave unsmiling courtesy, and introduces: “Mr. Milligan.”
Is this the owner of a new motor-car, or a Designing Female? Desperately Peter tries to collect her whirling thoughts, while Merle, according to previous arrangement, detaches herself from other duties, to present one partner after another; names that sound familiar: “the son of a judge ... can imitate ducklings ... black waistcoat where others elect to wear white,”—easily distinguishable, this last; “a life-story ... serious intentions ... seven devils and a shoe-black” ... the descriptions on the list jostle each other, and form part of the brilliant kaleidoscopic blur which goes to make Peter’s evening. She is beginning to enjoy the keen sense of expectancy with which she herself has infused the air. Light as the flutter of a peaseblossom, Merle blows across the polished floor: “Peter, have you a dance left? I want to introduce you——” no, the pink card is already scribbled over from top to bottom.
“Never mind; you can cut—let me see!” coolly Mademoiselle scans the names, and crosses off a harmless personage bearing the Oriental title of Otto Mann. “He’s not important” ... and she presents Mr. Thane, who looks rather astonished at these unceremonious proceedings, but laughingly accepts number twenty-three, the last waltz but one.
“I believe you’ll do!” thinks Peter exultantly. But nevertheless, she will give other unconscious candidates their chance. Her peculiar talent for playing up, body and soul, to whatever part be thrust upon her, can be exercised to its full in the swift coming and going, change and interchange of companionship, that is ballroom custom.
The first waltz stirs the air. The first skilful probing of the material with which she has to deal: cue given: “Don’t you find these affairs leave an empty feeling behind them?”... so be it, then; the Puritan maid—for ten minutes. And you, sir, what may be your demands? Can’t be bothered with depths, or all that bally rot? Come then, we will e’en butterfly together.... And the music strikes up for the next one-step; Papillon bows and departs, and—who will come in his stead? Walk up! walk up, gentlemen all! Here are a variety of goods in one parcel: the Artistic Understanding; the Tantalizing Sphinx; Up-to-date Woman of the World, with trick of shoe and eyelash and epigram—this for the youth who will not be thought young; quickly alternating to the Clear-eyed Delightful Child: her first dance, and it’s all such splendid fun! Almost can Thirty-nine, cynical, weary, and grizzled at the temples, be brought to say: “Little girl, you make the years fall from me....”
Peter wriggles happily. Who can denounce her conduct as unfair? Who, at a masquerade, music-led, rose-fragrant, expects to confront aught but fellow-masqueraders?... Here comes another—Aha! I recognize you, my friend; you are he who vibrates like a jelly in dancing, and—apprehensively she glances down at her gold shoes in danger from the kiss of Othello.