Suddenly Mr. Lancaster seized her hand and began running with her down the room. Flora looked very much astonished. She picked up her roses again. Muriel was laughing still and her hair was flying. She was trying to tuck it under the snood with one hand as she ran. Mr. Lancaster almost hurled her into the little gold chair and gave her the red rose and the silver mirror. His face looked very queer. He blew his whistle and the band began playing “After the Ball.”
The long line of men filed by, one by one, each pausing to peer over Muriel’s shoulder in the silver mirror. Muriel was laughing all the time. She shook her head at every face in the glass. Stephen Carver was the last to go by. His hand was outstretched to help her to her feet. She shook her head at him. He looked very much astonished. Everyone was watching rather breathlessly. The men in front of Muriel were a little nonplussed.
Suddenly she threw the rose right over their heads, straight into the hands of Mr. Bert Lancaster. He almost dropped it, he was so surprised. Then he suddenly made a dash for Muriel. The music swirled up in a triumphant wave. Muriel and Mr. Lancaster began dancing. For a moment they were the only couple on the floor.
Then the other men began to favour. Four slid at once to Flora’s feet. Stephen Carver catapulted himself at Jane. Everyone was dancing at once, almost immediately. Round and round the room they went, swooping and swirling with the lilting strains of the waltz. Stephen was looking down all the time at Jane’s brown head. She could feel his eyes on her. She could feel them so hard that she didn’t look up.
The music rose and fell, in surging waves of sound. Some of the men began to sing, sentimentally. The light voices of girls joined airily in the chorus. The tender words rose mockingly, liltingly, above the strains of the band.
“After the ball is over, after the break of morn,
After the dancers’ leaving, after the stars are gone—”
The verse was a little ridiculous, Jane reflected. Not up to the music.
“Many a heart is aching, if you could read them all,
Many the hopes that have vanished—after—the—ball!”
The words were silly. Unreal, like all poor poetry. Stephen was a marvellous dancer. Dancing was heaven, thought Jane.
But the party was over. The waltz changed insensibly into the familiar cadence of “Home, Sweet Home.” Everyone kept on dancing. When the band finally stopped, it was greeted with a burst of applause. A little staccato rattle of clapping hands.
Flora was standing at the ballroom door with Mr. and Mrs. Furness. She looked excited and happy as she shook hands with the departing guests. But her mother’s face was very cold and proud. A little bright spot of color burned in either cheek. She held her little blonde head very high. Mr. Furness looked more sleepy than anything else.
Mr. Lancaster passed from the room at Muriel’s elbow. Flora’s mother hardly spoke to either of them. Muriel kissed Flora. Jane’s mother turned up at her side as she was talking to Stephen in the hall.
“ ’Til Sunday, then,” he said, as he turned away.
“Flora’s cousin,” said Mrs. Ward, as they went down the stairs, “is very attractive.”
“Isn’t he?” said Jane indifferently.
“He comes from a very good Boston family,” said Mrs. Ward, “on his father’s side.”
They had reached the entrance to the dressing-room. The dressing-room was very crowded. Mrs. Ward had nothing more to say until the doorman had shut the cab door upon them.
“Did you see,” she asked, then, at once, “what Bert Lancaster did?”
“I thought Muriel did it,” said Jane. “It was disgraceful of both of them,” said Mrs. Ward.
“Muriel’s like that sometimes,” said Jane very wisely.
“Lily Furness looked as if she were through with him forever,” said her mother.
Jane stifled a yawn. She felt suddenly very sleepy.
“But I don’t suppose she is,” said Mrs. Ward.
IV
The Christmas tree spread its green boughs in the darkest corner of the library. The little pink wax angel at its top almost touched the ceiling. The little pink wax angel had always crowned the Christmas tree. Jane could remember the time when she had thought it was very wonderful of Santa Claus to remember to bring it back every year.
Mr. Ward sat comfortably in his leather armchair. He was smoking a new Christmas cigar. Mrs. Ward was watching the Christmas candles a little anxiously. She was always afraid of fire. Isabel was sitting on the floor under the tree trying to keep the baby from snatching the low-hung ornaments. The baby could creep, now, and he was very inquisitive. Robin Bridges was standing beside them, watching his son with a proud proprietary twinkle in his small blue eyes. His gold-bowed spectacles glittered in the candlelight. Around his neck was a welter of Christmas socks and ties. He was really a dear, thought Jane.
The room was a chaos of tissue paper and scarlet ribbon. Jane had a new gold bracelet. She was awfully pleased with it. Agnes had sent her a book of poetry. It was called Barrack Room Ballads. It was written by Rudyard Kipling. Jane had never heard of him. She had dipped into them and she thought
