Off. Turning and turning. You steered through the open door; in and out among the other dancers; you skimmed; you swam, whirling, to the steady tump-tump of the piano, and the queer, exciting squeak of the fiddles—
Whirling together, you and Mr. Sutcliffe and the piano and the two fiddles. One animal, one light, slender animal, whirling and playing. Every now and then his arm tightened round your waist with a sort of impatience. When it slackened you were one light, slender animal again, four feet and four arms whirling together, the piano was its heart, going tump-tump, and the fiddles—
"Why did I think I couldn't do it?"
"Funk. Pure funk. You wanted to dance—you wanted to so badly that it frightened you."
His arm tightened.
As they passed she could see Mrs. Sutcliffe sitting in an arm-chair pushed back out of the dancers' way. She looked tired and bored and a little anxious.
When the last three dances were over he took her back to Mark.
Mark scowled after Mr. Sutcliffe.
"What does he look at you like that for?"
"Perhaps he thinks I'm—a funny lady in a bazaar."