Part 8 (1/2)

Ten Eyck brought Persis back to the table, and the other women returned, Mrs. Neff's partner nodding his head with a breathless satisfaction as he relinquished her and rejoined his own group.

The eyes of all the women were full of sated languor. They had given their youthful spirits play, and they were enjoying a refreshed fatigue.

The waiter had meanwhile set c.o.c.ktails about, and deposited two silver pails full of broken ice, from which gold-necked bottles protruded. And at each place there were slices of toast covered with the black shot of caviar.

The dancers fell on the appetizers with the appet.i.te of harvesters.

Persis thrilled Forbes with a careless:

”It's too bad you don't trot, Mr. Forbes.”

”He's not too old to learn,” said Ten Eyck. ”It's really very simple, once you get the hang of it.”

And he fell into a description of the technic.

”The main thing is to keep your feet as far from each other as you can, and as close to your partner's as you can. And you've got to hold her tight. Then just step out and trot; twirl around once in a while, and once in a while do a dip. Keep your body still and dance from your hips.

And--get up here a minute and I'll show you.”

Forbes was embarra.s.sed completely when Ten Eyck made him stand up and embrace him. But the people around made no more fun of them than revivalists make of a preacher and a new convert. They were proselytes to the new fanaticism. Forbes, as awkward as an overgrown school-boy, picked up a few ideas in spite of his reluctance.

He sat down flushed with confusion, but determined to retrieve himself.

In a little while the music struck up once more.

”L'ave your pick in the air, the band's begun again,” said Ten Eyck.

”Come on, Winifred!” Bob Fielding lifted Mrs. Neff to her feet and haled her away, and Persis was left to Forbes.

”Don't you want to try it?” she said, with an irresistible simplicity.

”I'm afraid I'd disgrace you.”

”You can't do that. Come along. We'll practise it here.”

She was on her feet, and he could not refuse. He rose, and she came into his arms. Before he knew it they were swaying together. He had a native sense of rhythm, and he had been a famous dancer of the old dances.

He felt extremely foolish as he sidled, dragging one foot after the other. He trod on her toes, and smote her with his knee-caps, but she only laughed.

”You're getting it! That's right. Don't be afraid!”

Her confidence and her demand gave him courage like a bugle-call. But he could not master the whirl till she said, as calmly as if she were a gymnastic instructor:

”You must lock knees with me.”

Somehow and quite suddenly he got the secret of it. The music took a new meaning. With a desperate masterfulness he swept her from their back-water solitude out into the full current.

He was turkey-trotting with Persis Cabot! He wanted everybody to know it. This thought alone gave him the braggadocio necessary to success.

Perhaps he was too busy thinking of his feet, perhaps the dance really was not indecent; but certainly his thoughts of her were as chivalrous as any knight's kneeling before his queen.