leading man in a Negro revue called James Crow, Esquire, imitated the strumming of a ukelele with his fingers while he sang:
No sir, don't mean maybe,
Yes sir, that's my baby now . . .
Lutie Panola had thrown herself on the bed. She lay, a vast violet muslin heap on the tiger-skin covering, kicking up her heels, shivering like a mammoth platter of jelly, and emitting gurgles of joy. Dr. Lister dragged Mary to the floor and she danced with him willingly enough, only too grateful to escape the attentions of Pettijohn for the time being. Adora was beating time with the heel of her mule, while her two satellites and Alcester Parker waved their arms in rhythm with the music.
When the phonograph ran down, the noise increased. The men sought drinks, the women lipsticks. Mary gravitated towards the open window. Suddenly, through the uproar, in a clear undertone that ripped the din like thunder, she heard a voice behind her which unaccountably made her tremble.
You seem out of place here, if you don't mind my saying so, the voice said.
She turned quickly to face the diver, furious that he, a stranger, should take for granted what she felt to be true.
