"I persuaded her ... for the sake of variety," mumbled Maurice.
Little Fauvre, the baritone, had come up; but Miss Jensen did not heed his meek reminder that this was their dance.
"That was excessively kind of you," said the big woman, and looked at Maurice with shrewd, good-natured eyes. "And no doubt, Louise is most grateful. She seems to be enjoying herself. Keep quiet, Fauvre, do, till I am ready.—But I don't like her dress. It's a lovely goods, and no mistake. But it ain't suitable for a little hop like this. It's too much."
"How Miss Dufrayer dresses is none of my business."
"Well, maybe not.—Now, Fauvre, come along"—she called it "Fover." "I reckon you think you've waited long enough."
Maurice, left to himself again, was astonished to hear Madeleine's voice in his ear. She had made her way to him alone.
"For goodness' sake, pull yourself together," she said cuttingly. "Every one in the hall can see what's the matter with you."
Before he could answer, she was claimed by her partner—one of the few Germans scattered through this Anglo-American gathering. "Is zat your brozzer?" Maurice heard him ask as they moved away. He watched them dancing together, and found it a ridiculous sight: round Madeleine, tall and angular, the short, stout man rotated fiercely. From time to time they stopped, to allow him to wipe his face.
Maurice contemplated escaping from the hall to some quiet room beyond. But as he was edging forward, he ran into Dove's arms, and that was the end of it. Dove, it seemed, had had his eye on him. The originator of the ball confessed that he was not having a particularly good time; he had everything to superintend—the dances, the musicians, the arrangements for supper. Besides this, there were at least a dozen too many ladies present; he believed some of the men had simply given their tickets away to girl-friends, and had let them come alone. So far, Dove had been forced to sacrifice himself entirely, and he was hot and impatient.
"Besides, I've routed half a dozen men out of the billiardroom, more than once," he complained irrelevantly, wiping the moisture from his brow. "But it's of no——Now just look at that!" he interrupted himself. "The 'cellist has had too much to drink already, and they're handing him more beer. Another glass, and he won't be able to play at all.—I say, you're not dancing. My dear fellow, it really won't do. You must help me with some of these women."