"Where's your programme, dear?" asked Mrs. Hammond. Muriel produced it, but hope died in her heart as the scarlet pencil moved in Freddy's stubby fingers.
Polka, barn-dance, waltz. . . .
Her eye ran down the list of dances. Freddy's name alone marred the virgin whiteness of the opposite page. At the thought of the second polka she shivered. Still, he had only asked for one dance. That could not spoil the Party.
A gentleman with a red flower in his buttonhole crossed the room and sat down by the piano. From the way that he walked, Muriel knew that he was going to be one of the funny ones. She could always tell.
The gentleman ran his fingers along the piano like playing a scale, only prettier. In a minute the black coats and muslin dresses would twirl together in a solemn polka. Muriel did not want to dance. She wanted to sit and watch the moving figures weaving strange patterns of shadow across the gleaming floor. She wanted to hear the music, and to tap her foot against the side of her chair to the beat of its "One, two, three, four."
The rows round the wall dissolved. Already Nancy Cartwright—a forward child, Mrs. Hammond said—had lured her blushing partner towards the centre of the room. A second couple followed, and a third.
"Haven't you got a partner for this?" asked Mrs. Hammond.
"Not just for this, Mother," Muriel murmured, vaguely aware of duty unfulfilled.
"Oh, dear, well, let me see," said Mrs. Hammond.
She rose and began to search the room. Muriel wanted to run, to call, to stop her; but she dared not venture into that revolving traffic of dancers. She sat very still, while the circling skirts brushed against her knees.