“You have been to town, I suppose?” he pursued.
“Yes, indeed, several times.”
“Would you care to come out in the corridor and walk?” he asked abruptly, as the music struck up again. “I’m not in evening dress, you see; I only returned from my trip half an hour ago. Or would you prefer to dance?” he added.
“Oh, I prefer to dance!” said Dosia, with the first natural inflection her voice had possessed in speaking to him.
“Then I will ask you to excuse me. I see Billy Snow coming over for you. Good night.”
“You are not going to leave now?” exclaimed Dosia, with disappointment too quick to be concealed.
“In a few moments; I may not see you again.” He did not offer his hand this time, but bowed and was gone.
It was the last dance. Billy Snow, slim and young, was a good partner, and Dosia’s feet were light, yet, for the first time that evening, she did not feel the buoyancy of dancing; the flavor of it was lost. As they circled around the room, she saw that the booths were being dismantled of their blue and crimson and yellow draperies, the decorations were being torn from the walls, and cloaks and boxes routed out from under the tables. The receivers of money were busily counting up the piles of silver. A few children ran up and down at the end of the room, on the smooth floor, unchecked, and a small boy lay asleep on a bench, while his mother lamented her husband’s prolonged absence to everyone who passed. Each minute the crowd in the room thinned out more and more, going out by twos and threes and fours, leaving fewer couples on the floor and a scattered line of chaperons against the wall. But the dancers who were left clung to their privilege. As the clock struck twelve, and the musicians got up to leave, a cry of protest arose:
“One more waltz—just one more! This is the best part of the evening. Lawson—Lawson Barr, give us a waltz! Ah, no, don’t say you’re too tired—play!”
Young Billy Snow stood with his arm half withdrawn from Dosia’s waist, looking questioningly down at her.