"At the Dimchurches', the winter before I came here."
"Didn't last long, though. You were the prettiest gell there."
"I suppose I was.—And you were just Tommy Erskine then, and awfully ineligible!"
What an absurd remark to make! If she was going to let her tongue run away with her like that, she had better keep her mouth shut.
They danced on in silence for some time, rested in the cool of a verandah and then danced again. The room was already beginning to empty somewhat, making dancing more of a pleasure than ever. They danced on till they were tired and then sat out again.
"We might take a stroll about," suggested Tommy presently.
They walked down the steps and out on the lawn. Presently they came near the windows of the bar, which was on the ground floor of the hotel, and stopped to look in for a moment. It was a lively scene. The room—a great white bare place—was filled with men laughing and shouting and slapping each other on the shoulder and bellowing college songs, all in a thick blue haze of tobacco smoke. They were also drinking, and Beatrice noticed that when they had drained their glasses they invariably threw them carelessly on the floor, adding a new sound to the din and fairly paving the room with broken glass. Many of them were mildly intoxicated, but none were actually drunk; the whole sounded the note of celebration in the ballroom strengthened and masculinized. It had its effect on Beatrice; it was a pleasure to think that one lived in a world where people could enjoy themselves thoroughly and uproariously and without becoming bestial about it.
"It's really very jolly, isn't it?" she said at last.
"Oh, rippin'," assented Tommy.
"Perhaps you'd rather go in there now?"