We went to the booking office; there was no one there, and the window was closed. Moreover a notice on the wall announced that the hall was let to a private club for the first two hours of the evening. A few young people came along as we were standing there, read the notice, and went away again. The carpenter was unwilling to go, looked round, and went in through the gate as though looking for someone. "We can't do anything about it," I called after him. "No," he said. "But I wonder--?" He crossed the yard and began to look up at all the windows. A man came down the stairs. "What is it?" he asked. "My friend wanted to buy a ticket," I replied. The carpenter still showed no inclination to return from the yard. The man approached me, and proved to be the landlord. He explained, like the notice, that a club had rented the hall for the first two hours. "Come along, we can't get in!" I called to my companion. But he was in no hurry, so I chatted with the landlord while waiting for him. "Yes, it's rather an exclusive club. Only eight couples, but just the same they've hired a full orchestra--rich people, you see." They had refreshments and plenty of champagne, and then they danced as though their lives depended on it. Why they did it? Oh, well, young people, rich and fashionable, bored by Sunday evening at home; they wanted to work off the week's idleness in two hours, so they danced. Not unusual, really. "And of course," said the landlord, "I earn more in those two hours than in the whole of the evening otherwise. Liberal people--they don't count the pennies. And yet there's no wear and tear, because of course people like that don't dance on their heels." The carpenter, who had come halfway back, stood listening to us. "What sort of people are they, generally speaking?" I inquired. "Businessmen, officers, or what?" "Excuse me, but I can't tell you that," replied the landlord. "It's a private party; that's all I can say. To-night, for instance, I don't even know who they are. The money just came by special messenger." "It's Flaten," said the carpenter. "Flaten--is it?" said the landlord, as though he did not know it. "Mr. Flaten has been here before; he's a fine gentleman, always in fashionable company. So it's Mr. Flaten, is it? Well, excuse me, I must have another look round the hall--" The landlord left us. But the carpenter followed him. "Couldn't we look on?" he asked. "What, at the dancing? Oh, no." "In a corner somewhere?" "No, I couldn't allow that. I don't even let my own wife and daughter in--nobody, not a soul. They wouldn't like it." "Are you coming or--?" I called, as though for the last time. "Yes, I'm coming," said the carpenter, turning back. "So you knew about this party?" I said. "Yes," he replied. "She talked about it last Friday." "Who talked about it? Miss Torsen?" "Yes. She said I might sit in the gallery."