After the first greeting given her, a silence fell on the room, the best tribute they could pay to her art, her grace, her abandon. Nothing so audacious had ever been seen by certainly half the assemblage. Casting aside the old tricks of the danseuse, the tipping and pirouetting and grimacing for applause, the dancer seemed oblivious of her audience and as though she were trying to excel herself. She swayed and swung and swept from side to side as though on wings.
Round after round of applause swept over the room. Men were talking in undertones to each other; women buzzed behind their fans.
She stopped, panting and flushed with pride, and with a certain scorn in her face and mien glanced over the audience. Just as she was poising herself for another effort, her eye reached the side of the room where Keith stood just beside Miss Huntington. A change passed over her face. She nodded, hesitated for a second, and then began again. She failed to catch the time of the music and danced out of time. A titter came from the rear of the room. She looked in that direction, and Keith did the same. Ferdy Wickersham, with a malevolent gleam in his eye, was laughing. The dancer flushed deeply, frowned, lost her self-possession, and stopped. A laugh of derision sounded at the rear.
"For shame! It is shameful!" said Lois Huntington in a low voice to Keith.
"It is. The cowardly scoundrel!" He turned and scowled at Ferdy.
At the sound, Terpy took a step toward the front, and bending forward, swept the audience with her flashing eyes.
"Put that man out."
A buzz of astonishment and laughter greeted her outbreak.
"Cackle, you fools!"
She turned to the musicians.