IX

In the days of the waltz and the twostep, Aiken did not dance, but

immediately upon the introduction of the Turkey Trot and the Grizzly

Bear, she made honorable amends. Wilcox built an oval ballroom with a

platform for musicians, the big room at the Golf Club was found to have

a capital floor, and the grip of bridge whist upon society was rudely

loosened.

Whatever may be said in derogation of the modern dances, they have

rejuvenated the old and knocked a lot of nonsense out of the young. To

my eye there is nothing more charming than a well-danced maxixe. To

dance well a man must be an athlete and a musician; to be either is

surely a worthy ambition. To dance well a girl must at the very least

have grace and charm.

So far as I am concerned, Lucy Fulton's dance was a great success, from

the arrival of the first guest. I was the first guest.

We had a whole dance to ourselves while Evelyn was busy with the

telephone and before the second guest arrived. In all her life Lucy

had never looked more animated or more lovely. The musicians caught

her enthusiasm and the high spirit which flowed from her like an

electric current, and at once these things appeared in their music.

"I've only one sorrow," I said, "that I can't dance with you and watch

you dance at the same time."

"But if you had to choose one or the other?"

"I shall choose often," I said, "but I'm afraid others will begin

getting chosen. If I had my way there would be no other man but me and

no other girl but you, and we'd dance till breakfast time."

"Evelyn," said Lucy, her eyes full of mischief, "could chaperon us from

a bench. She could send for her knitting."

"Who is this Evelyn?" I said.

And then the rhythm of the music became too much for us, and we did not

speak any more, only danced; only danced and liked each other more and

more.

That night it seemed there were no tired men or women in Aiken. There

were no lingering groups of yarn-swapping men in the buffet, only

half-melted humanity who gulped down a glass of champagne and flew back

to the dance. We made so much noise that half the dogs in Aiken barked

all night, and roosters waked from sleep began to crow at eleven

o'clock.

I am sure that Lucy did not give many thoughts to poor John Fulton,

worrying his head off in far New York. She had the greatest power upon

her own thoughts of any woman or man I ever knew. And always she chose

agreeable and even delightful things to think about. When I try to

make castles in the air I get worrying about details, such as neighbors

and plumbing. Sometimes I have felt that it would be agreeable to run

away from everyone and everything, and live on some South Sea beach in

an undershirt and an old pair of trousers. I can see the palms and the

breadfruit, as well as the next man. I can picture the friendly brown

girls with their bright, black eyes and their long necklaces of scarlet

flowers and many-colored shells, and I can hear the long-drawn roar of

the surf on the coral beach. But always my bright, hopeful pictures go

to smash on details. More insistent than the roar of the surf, I hear

the humming of great angry mosquitoes, and I try to figure out what I

should do if I came down with appendicitis and no surgeon within a

thousand miles.

Lucy chose her thoughts as she would have selected neckties, choosing

the pretty ones, tossing the ugly ones aside and never thinking of them

again, or, for that matter, of the bill for the pretty neckties that

would be sent to her husband. Only very great matters, such as love

and death, could have occupied her mind against her will.

Toward one o'clock the dance became hilarious. One or two men had the

good sense to go home, two or three others had not. One of them--the

King boy--made quite a nuisance of himself, and to revenge himself for

a snub (greatly exaggerated by the alcoholic mind), sought and found

the hotel switchboard and in the midst of a fox trot shut off all the

lights.

But the music went right on, and so did many of the dancers. There

were violent collisions, shouts of laughter, and exclamations of pain.

I was facing the nearest wall of the room when the lights went out and

I backed Lucy toward it, and then, groping, for I hadn't a match in my

clothes, found it and stood guard over her, one hand pressing the wall

on each side of her and my back braced. I received one thundering jolt

over the kidneys, and one cruel kick on the ankle bone. And then the

lights went on again, and we finished our dance.

Lucy said she hated people who weren't cool and collected in time of

danger. That if she was ever in a theater when it caught fire she

hoped there'd be somebody with her, like _me_, to take care of her!

"That was the neatest thing," she said, "the way you got us out of

that. We might have been knocked down and trampled to death."

When that dance ended, we went out of doors for a few minutes to get

cool. We took a turn the length of the narrow, sanded yard and back.

We could hear the buggy boys just beyond the tall privet hedge. Some

were cracking jokes; others were heavily snoring, and there were

whispered conversations that had to do, no doubt, with mischief, and

petty crimes.

"It's been a grand party," I said. "By and by I'm going to give one."

"But not for me, you know, just a spontaneous party. Oh, do please,

will you?"

"Of course I will. But it will really be given----"

"I mustn't know."

"You shall never know if you mustn't."

"I think you ought to dance once with Evelyn."

"I have danced with her, but only half a dance. She said she was

tired--and then she finished it with Dawson Cooper."

"I wish they'd get to like each other."

"So do I. They're the right age. They've the right amount of money

between them, and they like the same sort of things. But it rests with

Evelyn. Dawson would fly to a dropped handkerchief as a pigeon flies

home; but he's very shy and doesn't think much of himself."

It seemed a good omen when we entered the main hall and found them

sitting out a dance together.

Dawson rose, but with some reluctance, it seemed to me.

"Isn't it about my turn, Lucy?" he said. "Will you?"

"Did Evelyn tell you you had to?"

He blushed like a schoolboy, and Evelyn burst out laughing.

"Then I will," said Lucy, "when I see a man trying to do his duty like

a man, I help him always, and besides you dance like a breeze."

So they went away together, he apologizing and she teasing.

"How about me?" I said to Evelyn. "Is it my turn?"

"No," she said, "it isn't. I want to talk to you."

I sat down facing her in the chair that Dawson Cooper had occupied.

"Just now," she said, "when you and Lucy went outside, I heard someone

say to someone else----"

"Hadn't they any names?"

"No. She said to him, 'It's about time John Fulton came back. Lucy's

making a fool of herself.'"

Somehow I seemed to turn all cold inside.

"Of course," said Evelyn, "Lucy knows and you know and I know, but the

man in the street who sees you ride out together day after day, and the

woman who's no particular friend of yours, who sees you dance dance

after dance together--_they_ don't know. Aiken is a small place, but

like the night, it has a thousand eyes, and as many idle tongues. If I

didn't know Lucy so well, and you so well, I'd be a little worried."

"Why," I said, "it's a golf year. Nobody would rather ride, except

Lucy and me."

"The reason doesn't matter," said Evelyn. "When two young people are

together a whole lot, their feelings don't stand still. They either

get to like each other less and less, or more and more. You and Lucy

don't like each other less and less. Anybody can see that, so it must

be more and more. And there's always danger in that. Isn't there?"