How strange she looked! a wild violet in a hot-house. He waited for her to glance in his direction, but she seemed to be absorbed in the singer and in the song, and every now and then she smiled, though obviously not at the song--at something that amused her or pleased her in her thoughts. She could smile then and be happy, and all his wild emotions had made no invasion into her life. . . . No; she would not look in his direction. Perhaps she had seen him come in and refused to see him. Would the dancing never begin? The dancing took place on a slightly raised floor. If he danced there she would have to see him. He found a warm hand placed on his leg, and turning he saw Jessie Petrie, a model, with whom he had danced at the studios and at the Detmold. "I thought I was never going to see you again," she said, "and Mitchell said you had gone mad." "Do I look it?" he asked. "No. You look bonnier than ever. I'm on my own again now. Thompson has gone to Paris. He says the only painters are there. I think he's going mad, because he paints nothing but stripes and triangles. And he _was_ such a dear. . . . I'm feeling awfully lonely because Tilly has gone to Canada. Samuelson gave her the chuck and she went out to her cousin in Canada, who had always been wanting to marry her. . . . Are you still down in Whitechapel? I do hate going to see you there. Why don't you move up to the West End? I could come and live with you then, for I do hate being at a loose end." She was adorably pretty, dark, with eyes like damsons, lovely red lips, touched up with carmine, and a soft white neck that trembled as she spoke like the breast of a singing bird. "Oh! who do you think I saw the other day? Hetty Finch! She has a flat and a motor-car, but I don't believe she is married." She looked suddenly solemn as she added: "The baby's dead." Then she rattled on: "Isn't she lucky? But she's an awful snob. Would hardly speak to me!" "She's a beast of a woman." "What do you think of this place? I suppose if the swells come it'll be a success, but they do spoil it." "Yes," said Mendel. "They spoil everything. When do they begin to dance?" "They've nearly finished the programme. They have to have a programme to make people eat and drink." "Let's have some champagne." He called the waiter and ordered a bottle. "Been selling lately?" "No," he said; "but I want to dance. Do you hear? I want to dance." "Dancing," Logan threw in, "is the beginning of art. It is too primitive for me, or I'm too old." A thin-faced long-haired poet mounted the table and read some verses, which the popping of corks and the clatter of knives and forks rendered inaudible. The poet went on interminably, and at last someone began drumming on the table and shouting "Dance! Dance! Dance!" The poet stuck to it. Bread was thrown at him and the shouting became general.