The feeling of lightness and slenderness had gone. Her feet stuck to the waxed floor as if they were glued there. She was frightened. It had begun. Norman Waugh was dragging her round the room. Once. Twice. She hated the feeling of his short, thick body moving a little way in front of her. She hated his sullen bull's face, his mouth close to hers, half open, puffing. From the walls Mr. Sutcliffe's ancestors looked at you as you shambled round, tied tight in your Indian scarf, like a funny lady in the bazaars. Raised eyebrows. Quiet, disdainful faces. She was glad when Norman Waugh left her on the window-seat. Dr. Charles next. He was kind. You trod on his feet and he pretended he had trodden on yours. "My dancing days are over." "And mine haven't begun." They sat out and she watched Mark. He didn't dance very well: he danced tightly and stiffly as if he didn't like it; but he danced: with Miss Frewin and Miss Louisa Wright, because nobody else would; with the Acroyds because Mrs. Sutcliffe made him; five dances with Dorsy Heron, because he liked her, because he was sorry for her, because he found her looking sad and shy in a corner. You could see Dorsy's eyes turn and turn, restlessly, to look at Mark, and her nose getting redder as he came to her. Dr. Charles watched them. You knew what he was thinking. "She's in love with him. She can't take her eyes off him." Supposing you told her the truth? "He won't marry you. He won't care for you. He won't care for anybody but Mamma. Can't you see, by the way he looks at you, the way he holds you? It's no use your caring for him. It'll only make your little nose redder." He wouldn't mind her red nose; her little proud, high-bridged nose. He liked her small face, trying to look austere with shy hare's eyes; her vague mouth, pointed at the corners in a sort of sharp tenderness; her smooth, otter-brown hair brushed back and twisted in a tight coil at the nape of her neck. Dorsy was sweet and gentle and unselfish. He might have cared for Dorsy if it hadn't been for Mamma. Anyhow, for one evening in her life Dorsy was happy, dancing round and round, with her wild black hare's eyes shining. Mr. Sutcliffe. She stood up. She would have to tell him. "I can't dance." "Nonsense. You can run and you can jump. Of course you can dance." "I don't know how to." "The sooner you learn the better. I'll teach you in two minutes." He steered her into the sheltered bay behind the piano. They practised. "Mark's looking at us." "Is he? What has he done to you, Mary? We'll go where he can't look at us." They went out into the hall. "That's it; your feet between mine. In and out. Don't throw your shoulders back. Don't keep your elbows in. It's not a hurdle race." "I wish it was." "You won't in a minute. Don't count your steps. Listen for the beat. It's the beat that does it." She began to feel light and slender again. "Now you're off. You're all right."