floor, bowed to Ada, and asked her if he might have the honour of a dance.
"Thanks," said Ada. "I'd like to. It isn't good style to dance with your own husband all evening." She slapped Albert playfully on the shoulder. "Be good to your cousin, now, Albert! You let me know if he ain't good to you, Cousin May."
The two couples were whirled apart. The devil himself seemed to put new life into May. "I'll 'cousin' her! I'll 'cousin' her!" she muttered, grinding her teeth, and dancing like one possessed.
Ada had towered above Albert. Her big solid frame had been difficult to guide among the swaying throng, but May was tiny, agile, like a bit of dancing quicksilver. He clutched her to him, and a grin overspread his moist, flushed face.
May's face was upturned. Her eyes were shining into his. Every now and again she gave little stamps as though she were dancing on Ada's prostrate body.
A change had come over the room. Under the glaring lights, under the red and white bunting, a strange blight seemed to have fallen on the dancers. May suddenly perceived that, except for one other couple, she and Albert were the only ones dancing. The rest stood about the walls, silent; their faces, under the white lights, had become round, meaningless disks like the faces of daisies in a flower border. The other dancers were Jimmy Sykes and Delight.
"They don't seem used to girls wot can dance, 'ere," said May. "They're all standin' up to watch Delight and me." She turned her head, laughing, kicking up her heels, so that more and more of her petticoat and twisted pink cotton stockings were visible. At last a man in a red fireman's coat growled at them, as they passed:
