plishments, but he tried to follow her as she guided him.
Clumsy! she cried. Come on! Let's go in where the music is.
She pulled him after her into the Viennese room, where the Metzinger, the back of the canvas uppermost, still lay prostrate on the floor.
There's that damn picture! What are we going to do with it? Come on, Des, something swifter . . . Bandanna Land. . . . Come on, Des! She snapped her fingers. The Negress chuckled as she replaced the record, cranked the machine, and set the needle. . . . Come on, Hal! She bounced him about the room, as if he were a heavy rag doll. Desdemona, with a great expanse of white ivory and her red tongue protruding, beat time with her long, narrow feet. Ta-ta-ta-ta, Bandanna Land! Shake your shimmy, Hal. . . . The entrance-bell sounded. . . . Not at home, Des, cried Zimbule, to any one! . . . Desdemona shuffled off, closing the drawing-room door behind her. Zimbule did not stop the phonograph. She continued to circle the room with her willing but inefficient partner.
Desdemona, no longer smiling, came back into the room, again closing the door. Zimbule caught her expression.
What's the matter, Des?
The Negress was silent. Zimbule walked over to her and the black whispered something into the girl's ear.
