She hung a moment in the door of the brilliantly lighted room. Many people were moving within the blaze of lamps, under the crystal chandeliers, the full skirts of the women balancing and floating, the side-whiskers and white cravats of the men bowing above. Then she entered the light. In an instant Sam Adams was coming forward, lifting both his arms in boisterous welcome. There was a constant red laugh on his face. “Come late, would you,” he shouted, “like royalty.” He seized her hands and led her forward. He opened his mouth wide when he spoke, and the effect of the warm, dark opening behind the brown whiskers was disturbing. But she was floating into the throng on his arm. He was very gallant. “Now then,” he said, taking her card to write down the dances, “I’ve got _carte blanche_, haven’t I?” “Mr Whiston doesn’t dance,” she said. “I am a lucky man!” he said, scribbling his initials. “I was born with an _amourette_ in my mouth.” He wrote on, quietly. She blushed and laughed, not knowing what it meant. “Why, what is that?” she said. “It’s you, even littler than you are, dressed in little wings,” he said. “I should have to be pretty small to get in your mouth,” she said. “You think you’re too big, do you!” he said easily. He handed her her card, with a bow. “Now I’m set up, my darling, for this evening,” he said. Then, quick, always at his ease, he looked over the room. She waited in front of him. He was ready. Catching the eye of the band, he nodded. In a moment, the music began. He seemed to relax, giving himself up. “Now then, Elsie,” he said, with a curious caress in his voice that seemed to lap the outside of her body in a warm glow, delicious. She gave herself to it. She liked it. He was an excellent dancer. He seemed to draw her close in to him by some male warmth of attraction, so that she became all soft and pliant to him, flowing to his form, whilst he united her with him and they lapsed along in one movement. She was just carried in a kind of strong, warm flood, her feet moved of themselves, and only the music threw her away from him, threw her back to him, to his clasp, in his strong form moving against her, rhythmically, deliriously. When it was over, he was pleased and his eyes had a curious gleam which thrilled her and yet had nothing to do with her. Yet it held her. He did not speak to her. He only looked straight into her eyes with a curious, gleaming look that disturbed her fearfully and deliriously. But also there was in his look some of the automatic irony of the _roué_. It left her partly cold. She was not carried away. She went, driven by an opposite, heavier impulse, to Whiston. He stood looking gloomy, trying to admit that she had a perfect right to enjoy herself apart from him. He received her with rather grudging kindliness. “Aren’t you going to play whist?” she asked. “Aye,” he said. “Directly.” “I do wish you could dance.” “Well, I can’t,” he said. “So you enjoy yourself.”