“Oh, they’ll go on all night, Sonia! We—want—a—dance. Come on, Gerry, all together! Pentyre! One, two, three! We—want—a—dance—We—want—a—dance.”
The three men ranged themselves against a wall and shouted through their open fists like trumpeting heralds.
At the second repetition, those nearest to them joined in the measured, relentless chorus, drowning the efforts of a girl at the piano and reducing Mrs. O’Rane to helpless gesticulation.
“Wait till the end of this!,” she begged in an interval of silence.
“We—want—a—dance!”
“But it’s so rude!”
Gaymer laughed and whispered to his companions.
“Do—not—shoot—the—pi-an-ist.—She—is—do-ing—her—best,” rose the new chorus; then, with swelling menace, “WE—WANT—A—DANCE.”
It was impossible to sing, play or argue against the concerted uproar, and after a moment’s indecision Mrs. O’Rane gave orders for the rugs and furniture to be moved. Her husband apologized to the interrupted musician, and Eric was leading Amy Loring away when Gaymer petitioned for the first dance.
“Lady Amy’s promised it to me,” Eric improvised.