Lottie eyed her enviously. Charley had had lessons in gymnastic dancing since the age of nine. Her work now was professional in finish, technique, and beauty. She could do Polish Csárdás in scarlet boots, or Psyche in wisps of pink chiffon and bare legs, or Papillons d'Amour in flesh tights, ballet skirts aflare and snug pink satin bodice, with equal ease and brilliance. She was always threatening to go on the stage and more than half meant it. Charley would no more have missed a performance of the latest Russian dancers, or of Pavlova, or the Opera on special ballet nights than a student surgeon would miss an important clinic. In the earlier stages of her dancing career her locomotion had been accomplished entirely by the use of the simpler basic forms of gymnastic dance steps. She had jeté-d and coupé-d and sauté-d and turné-d in and out of bed, on L train platforms, at school, on the street. Lottie, regarding her niece now, said, "Looks easy, so I suppose it isn't. Let's see." She lifted her skirt tentatively. "Look out!" "No, no! Don't touch your skirts. Arms free. Out. Like this. Hands are important in dancing. As important as feet. Now! Tour jeté! Higher! That's it. _Tou_----" "Lot-_tie_!" Mrs. Payson's voice at the foot of the staircase. "Oh, my goodness!" All the light, the fun, the eagerness that had radiated Lottie's face vanished now. She snatched a handkerchief from the dresser and made for the stairs, snapping a fastener at her waist as she went. "Call Aunt Charlotte for dinner," she flung over her shoulder at Charley. "All right. Can I have a drop of your perfume on my hank?" (Not quite so grown-up, after all.) As she flew past the living room on her way to the pantry Lottie heard her mother's decided tones a shade more decisive than usual as she administered advice to her patient son-in-law. "Put in a side-line then, until business picks up. Importing won't improve until this war is over, that's sure. And when will it be over? Maybe years and years----" Henry Kemp's amused, tolerant voice. "What would you suggest, Mother Payson? Collar buttons--shoe strings--suspenders. They're always needed." "You may think you're very funny, but let me tell you, young man, if I were in your shoes to-day I'd----" The pantry door swung after Lottie. As she ranged oil, vinegar, salt, pepper, paprika on the shelf before her and pressed the pungent cheese against the bottom and sides of the shallow bowl with her fork, her face had the bound look that it had worn earlier in the day at Celia's. She blended and beat the dressing into a smooth creamy consistency.