At that moment the band struck up, and in another instant the floor was covered with figures. The tall, gawky boy dragged off Mary, who had said not a word, but stared at him with distressed eyes through her spectacles. Helen took absolute charge of her partner, moving away with such grace and elegance that Jeremy was suddenly proud of her and seemed to see her as she really was for the first time in his life. Then he realized that he was alone, absolutely alone, stuck against the wall, a silly gawk, for all the world to look at and despise. III He set his chin, squared his shoulders, and tried to look as though he were there by preference. No one now paid any attention to him; the music swung on, and although he had never danced in his life, his toes kept time inside his shoes. He gazed haughtily around him, stared at the dancers as they passed him, and was miserable. Then the stout lady who had carried off Mary and Helen suddenly appeared again and said: “What! Not dancing? You’re Jeremy Cole, aren’t you? Come along. I’ll find you a partner.” He was led away and precipitated at the feet of a very stout lady who stared at him in a frozen way and a frightened little girl. He had a programme in his hand and was going to ask her for some future polka, when the mountainous lady said in a deep bass voice: “You’d better take her now. She’s been waiting long enough,” staring at the genial introducer as she spoke. Jeremy led away his victim. He was acutely miserable, but the agony of stumbling, bumping and incoherent whirling did not last long because the band suddenly stopped, and before he knew it he was sitting on the steps of a staircase with his partner and staring at her. She said not a word; then he saw that she was terrified and pity held him. “Do you like dances?” he asked hoarsely. “I’ve never been to one before,” she answered in a convulsive whisper, looking as though she were about to cry. “Where do you live?” he asked. “Five, Pemberton Terrace, Polchester,” she answered breathlessly. “Was that your mother?” “No. Auntie.” “How many aunts have you?” “Five.” “What a lot! I’ve only one, and it’s quite enough. How many uncles have you?” “I haven’t got an uncle.” “I have—a splendid one. Do any of your aunts paint?” “Auntie Maude does.” “What does she paint?” “I don’t know.” He felt this conversation so stupid that he looked at her in disgust. What was it about girls? Why was there something the matter with all of them? If this was what dances were, he didn’t want any more of them. And it was just then, at that most distressing moment, that the wonderful, the never-to-be-forgotten event occurred. Someone was coming down from the stairs above them and wanted to pass them. A voice said softly: “Do you mind? Thank you so much.”