"The time when we have to get into this melee or become the pariah dog among countries. I don't profess to any knowledge of international affairs, but any fool can see that our sham neutrality will be the most costly piece of political blundering ever perpetrated in history. Here we are in 1915. The war's nine months old. For every day we stand aside we shall eventually pay a year's bill." "That's all too deep for me," said Joan. "And anyway, I shan't be asked to pay anything. What shall we do now?" "What would you like to do? Go on to the Ritz and dance?" He had a sudden desire to hold this girl in his arms. "Why not? I'm on the verge of getting fed up with this place. Let's give civilization a turn." "I think so." He beckoned to his waiter. "The check," he said. "Sharp's the word, please." The Crystal Room was not content with one band. Even musicians must sometimes pause for breath, and anything like a break in the jangle and noise might bring depression to the diners who had crowded in to dance. As soon, therefore, as the left band was exhausted, the one on the right sprang in with renewed and feverish energy. Whatever melody there might have been in the incessant ragtime and fox trots was lost beneath the bang and clang of drum and cymbals, to which had been added other more ingenious ear tortures in the shape of rattles and whistles. Broken-collared men and faded women struggled for elbow room like a mass of flies caught on sticky paper. There was something both heathenish and pathetic in the whole thing. The place was reekingly hot. "Come on," said Joan, her blood stirred by the movement and sound. Palgrave held her close and edged his way into the crowd between pointed bare elbows and tightly clasped hands. "They call this dancing!" he said. "What do you call it?"