Muriel slipped her hand along the rail of the box. Stainton, whose eyes were fixed on the dancers, started at her touch.
"Hold my hand," said Muriel.
He took her hand in his, lowering it from the view of the spectators.
"No," commanded Muriel: "on the rail, please."
"Certainly, but isn't that rather——"
"It seems to be the custom, Jim."
So he held her hand before them all, and soon found himself liking this.
A troupe of girls ran upon the floor and, to the music, began a performance in tumbling. The hair of one was loosened, the ribbon that held it fell at her slippered feet, and two men, from near-by tables, leaped upon it and struggled laughingly for possession of the trophy.
The Staintons were intent upon this when they heard a low laugh behind them. They looked about: three women with bright cheeks were peeping through the swinging doors of the box. Involuntarily, Jim smiled, and, since a smile in Montmartre passes current for an invitation, the foremost of the girls entered, shutting out her companions.
"Vous êtes Américains?" she enquired.