In throbbing silence my glances stray
O'er her unreciprocal face,
And I haven't a notion what to say
Now I've finished with commonplace.
How I hate the slope of that cheerless chin,
And the stare of those vacant eyes,
That take the commonest objects in
With placid and cool surprise.
And I sit in a calm that she will not break,
A desert that is not peace,
And ever and ever the windows shake
To a dance that will never cease.
I cannot join the rout again,
I am far too weary and warm.
So I needs must suffer this speechless pain,
In a draught, on the red baize form.
There is one remark--it has proved a key
Already to one long chat,
Of course--I'll start it, for even she
Must answer awhile to that.
But horror! my agonised fingers curl,
Did I say it to her? I think
It must have been to that other girl
In the delicate shrimp-sauce pink.
Shall I chance it again! I must! I will!
With a stammer I've half begun--
Saved! saved! the music at last is still.
Thank goodness, the dance is done.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A CASE OF SELF-SACRIFICE.
_Mrs. Grimes._ "NO, SIR, MR. SMITH AIN'T A-BIN IN 'IS CHAMBERS NOT FOR
A WEEK, SIR."
_Mr. Broom._ "OH! YOU'RE SURE NOW YOU KNOW THE GENTLEMAN I MEAN--MR.
MELDON SMITH?"
_Mrs. Grimes._ "_HI_ KNOWS 'IM RIGHT ENOUGH. WY, I DOES ALL 'IS
WASHIN' AND MENDIN' FOR 'IM!"]
* * * * *