"I'm not—er—kidding," said Peter, laughing. "I can't play it at all—not at all."
Peggy gave him a look, shrugged and walked to the door.
"Fred-die-e!" she called.
Peter rose from the piano-stool and crossed to McGuire. The man's cigar was unsmoked and tiny beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.
"I don't think you need worry, sir," whispered Peter. "The men are all around the house, but if you say, I'll go out for another look around."
"No matter. I'll stick it out for a while."
"You're better off here than anywhere, I should say. No one would dare——"
Here Freddy at the piano struck up "Mary" and further conversation was drowned in commotion. Mildred Delaplane was preëmpted by Mr. Gittings and Peggy came whirling alone toward Peter, arms extended, the passion for the dance outweighing other prejudices.
Peter took a turn, but four years of war had done little to improve his steps.
"I'm afraid all my dancing is in my fingers," he muttered.