She made the mental note that he was very shy, for he had nothing in response to this, except that his shirt creaked. But that suited her very well; she did not want him to follow this up, just yet. Meantime the sedate marchings and retreats and occasional revolution of the fox-trot went decorously on. The room was very full, and, when there was nowhere to march to, they stopped where they were and marked time and rocked a little to and fro. Then perhaps a narrow lane opened in front of them, and they waddled down it, brushing shoulders against the hedges. She had seen Archie go to Mrs. Morris, after which he had appeared for a moment in the gallery where the band was, and now he was back again, standing near the door and watching her. She gave him little glances from time to time, elevated her eyebrows as if in deprecation of this unexhilarating performance, or smiled at him, guessing that he had arranged for another waltz. At last the end came, the fox-trotters ceased to clutch each other, and walked away with about as much Terpsichorean fervour as they had been dancing with. Dull though the last twenty minutes had been from that standpoint, Helena felt quite satisfied with it, while motion--or perhaps emotion--had made her partner hot; he gently wiped his forehead with a very fine cambric handkerchief. "Perfectly delicious," he said. "I should have liked that to go on for ever. And how long shall I have to wait before it begins again?" Archie had sidled through the crowd up to them. "Helena, we're going to have another waltz at once," he cried. "Don't let us waste any of it." She laid her hand on his arm. "We?" she said. "Are you quite certain?" "May I say 'we' also?" asked Lord Harlow. She turned towards him, but her hand still rested on Archie, and he felt the slight pressure from her fingertips. "Oh, I was only teasing my cousin," she said. "I had promised him another waltz. But, later, may I borrow my Bradshaw again?" The band struck up, setting her a-tingle for the repetition of what had gone before. "Oh, Archie, come on," she cried. "_Au revoir_, Bradshaw." Alert for movement, with the heady tune of the waltz already mounting into them like wine, they stepped off on to the floor. It was like stepping on to some moving platform; it and the tune, without any conscious effort of their own, seemed to carry them away. But Archie had one question to ask before he abandoned himself. "Bradshaw?" he said. "I thought you told me his name was Harlow." She gave a little bubble of laughter. "Oh, that was only a joke," she said. "He told me that you and I were like a Bacchic festival, and he felt as prosy as a Bradshaw in consequence." "But what does it matter to him what we are like?" asked he. "Well, it was a compliment; he meant it nicely," said she. "Don't let us talk; it rather spoils it." * * * * *