"The donor of the feast," she resumed at once, "was going a mucker. The possession of extra Bradburys, coupled with a wife who combined a champagne taste with his gin income, had inspired him to give a dance. He hoped that it might help to keep the damn woman quiet for a bit; and, besides everybody was giving dances. It was the thing to do, and warriors fresh from the fierce battle were wont to step lightly on the polished floor. As a matter of historical interest nine out of every ten of the warriors who performed nightly at different houses were fresh from the office stool at the House of War--a large edifice, completely filled with girl scouts and brain-storms. . . ."
"Beautiful," chuckled Vane; "quite beautiful."
"You see the actual warriors didn't get much of a look in. By the time they got to know anybody they had to go back round the corner again and they got tired of propping up the walls and looking on. Besides what made it even more dangerous for them was that kind-hearted women took compassion on them, and their own empty programmes and introduced themselves. And in the vernacular they were the snags. But all these things were hidden from the man of great wealth. . . ."
"Contrary to a life-long habit," said Vane, "he remained after dinner and haunted the door. Just every now and then a girl in grey gauzy stuff floated past him--and once, only once, he found himself looking into those big grey eyes when she passed quite close to him going out to get some lemonade. And the rusk did a somersault. . . ."
"But he didn't haunt the door," gurgled Joan. "He got roped in. He fell an easy victim to the snag parade--and women fainted and men wept when the man of great possessions and the pointed woman took the floor. . . ."
"All jolts and bumps," explained the girl. "Her knees were like steel castings. I think that if the--if the girl in grey gauzy stuff had realised that the man of wealth had stopped behind for her, she might, out of pity, have given him one dance. But instead all she did was to shake with laughter as she saw him quivering in a corner held fast in the clutch of the human steam engine. She heard the blows he was receiving; they sounded like a hammer hitting wood; and then later she saw him limping painfully from the room--probably in search of some Elliman's embrocation. But, as I say, she didn't realise it. . . . She only thought him a silly old man. . . ."