When supper-time came, she arranged a polonaise and made them all join in. The women giggled and nudged each other in their embarrassment, and the men said: “Well—let’s get in line—” One couple began a march song, beating time with their feet.
Miss Holm sat next the schoolteacher, in the place of honor under the bust of his Majesty the King. They all grew solemn again at the table, and Miss Holm was almost the only one who conversed. She spoke in the high-pitched tone of the actors in the modern society dramas of Scribe. After a while the company became more jovial, the men began to laugh and drink toasts, touching glasses across the table. Things were very lively at the end of the table where the young people sat, and it was not easy to obtain quiet for the schoolmaster, who rose to make a speech. He spoke at some length, mentioning Miss Holm and the nine Muses, and ending up with a toast to “The Priestess of Art, Miss Irene Holm!” All joined in the cheers, and everybody came up to touch glasses with Miss Holm.
Miss Holm had understood very little of the long speech, but she felt greatly flattered. She rose and bowed to the company, her glass held high in her curved arm. Her face-powder, put on for the festive occasion, had quite disappeared in the heat and exertion, and two deep red spots shone on her cheeks.
The fun waxed fast and furious. The young people began to sing, the old men drank a glass or two extra on the sly, and stood up from their places to hit each other on the shoulder, amid shouts of laughter. The women threw anxious glances at the sinners, fearing they might indulge too deeply. Amid all the noise Miss Holm’s laugh rang out, a girlish laugh, bright and merry as thirty years before in the ballet school.
Then the schoolmaster said that Miss Holm ought to dance. “But I have danced.” Yes, but she should dance for them—a solo—that would be fine.
Miss Holm understood at once—and a great desire grew up in her heart—she was to dance—a solo! But she pretended to laugh, and smiling up at Peter Madsen’s wife, she said: “The gentleman says I ought to dance,” as if it were the most absurd thing in the world.
Several heard it, and they all called out in answer, “Yes, yes, do dance.”
Miss Holm blushed to the roots of her hair, and said that she thought the fun was getting just a little too outspoken. “And, besides, there was no music; and one couldn’t dance in long skirts.” A man somewhere in the background called out: “You can lift them up, can’t you?” The guests all laughed at this, and began to renew their entreaties.
“Well, yes, if the young lady from the rectory will play for me?—a tarantella.” They surrounded the pastor’s daughter, and she consented to lend her services. The schoolmaster rose and beat on his glass: “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “Miss Holm will do us the honor to perform a solo dance for us.” The guests cheered, and the last diners arose from the table. The curate’s arm was black and blue where the young lady from the rectory had pinched him.
Miss Holm and the pastor’s daughter went to the piano to try the music. Miss Holm was feverish with excitement, and tripped back and forth, trying the muscles of her feet. She pointed to the humps and bumps in the floor: “I’m not quite used to dancing in a circus.” Then again: “Well, the fun can begin now;” her voice was hoarse with emotion. “I’ll come in after the first ten bars,” she said to the pianist; “I’ll give you a sign when to begin.” Then she went out into a little neighboring room and waited there. The audience filed in and stood around in a circle, whispering and very curious. The schoolmaster brought the lights from the table, and stood them up in the windows. It was quite an illumination. Then there came a light knock at the door of the little room.