Pybus's eyes wandered from Hughes to Mrs. Chalmers. The lady was making noise enough for ten. She did not strike the imagination as being a promising partner for a dance. So Pybus seemed to think. Hughes struck up, "You should see me dance the polka," playing it at the rate of about sixty miles an hour. Margaret looked at me.
"Are you and I to dance? Why dance?"
I shook my head.
"Hughes," I said, "I can't."
"You must, man, you must! Are you mad?"
"I can't."
I couldn't. A numbness seemed to be settling on my brain. My legs refused to support me. I sank into a chair. Margaret hesitated for just one second. I could see her trembling. Then she sat on the ground close to my feet. She leaned her arm upon my knee. Her face was turned towards mine.
"Nor can I. If we must die, George, let us die together; but not dancing."
"What on earth," inquired Pybus, "is all this talk of dying, Mr. Hughes? I insist upon an answer, sir."
In a sort of fury Hughes leaped from the music-stool.