He took another sandwich. His gaze did not rise above her shimmering shins.
"You're a funny boy. Gosh, your eyelashes are almost a mile long!"
He blushed, and raised his eyes as high as the marble whiteness of her chest.
"I wish we could have a dance together, Mister—what's your name?"
"Finch."
"Oh, and the Christian name?"
"Bill."
"Bill Finch, eh? I wish you'd come and see me some night, will you, Bill?"
"Rather."
"No. 5, Mayberry Street. Remember that? To-morrow night? Ask for Miss Lucas."
"No, I couldn't to-morrow."
"The next, then?"
"Yes," he agreed. "The next." He wished she would leave him with the sandwiches.
A stout fellow came up and took her arm. "Here, Betty," he said, "none of that." He led her off, but her bold greenish eyes laughed over her white shoulder at Finch.
He boasted to Meech, the flautist, of the advances she had made, while they hurriedly consumed cake and coffee. "That's a good sort to steer clear of," Meech counselled. "There's a lot of bold-looking hussies here, and no mistake."
The dance went on, the dancers displaying even more freedom of movement and brightness of eyes than before supper. They had been drinking a little, but they were not noisy. At two o'clock Burns, the mandolin player, who worked in an abattoir, passed a flask among the players. They were very tired. A little later they emptied it.
"One dance more!" the dancers begged at three o'clock. "One dance more!" They clapped their hands vigorously. Finch felt ready to drop from the stool. A tendon in his right hand ached horribly. The dancers
