He discovered that he
liked her. He liked her very much. She was so big and jolly and
robust, and spoke in such a clear, full voice. He was glad that
she was patting his hand. He was glad that he had asked her to
call him Bill.
People were dancing now. It has been claimed by patriots that
American dyspeptics lead the world. This supremacy, though partly
due, no doubt, to vast supplies of pie absorbed in youth, may be
attributed to a certain extent also to the national habit of
dancing during meals. Lord Dawlish had that sturdy reverence for
his interior organism which is the birthright of every Briton. And
at the beginning of supper he had resolved that nothing should
induce him to court disaster in this fashion. But as the time went
on he began to waver.
The situation was awkward. Nutty and Miss Leonard were repeatedly
leaving the table to tread the measure, and on these occasions the
Good Sport's wistfulness was a haunting reproach. Nor was the
spectacle of Nutty in action without its effect on Bill's
resolution. Nutty dancing was a sight to stir the most stolid.
Bill wavered. The music had started again now, one of those
twentieth-century eruptions of sound that begin like a train going
through a tunnel and continue like audible electric shocks, that
set the feet tapping beneath the table and the spine thrilling
with an unaccustomed exhilaration.
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