"Norman is coming to the dance," said my wife.
"He would prefer to be shot," I answered.
"You are coming too, and I want you to look after him."
"I also would prefer to stop one."
"It will do him all the good in the world. He wants bringing out."
When Norman is alone with me he is natural and even interesting at
times, but in company he is shy and self-conscious and a burden
to himself and his neighbours. He is a young dentist with a large
practice, and is already a well-known authority on Japanese methods
of extraction. Using only his thumb and forefinger he can remove
long-established teeth with so much ease and grace and such a quantity
of _sangfroid_ that it is a pleasure to watch him at his work. But
to a social gathering he comes limp and infirm of purpose; he feels
constrained to utter futile remarks with undue emphasis trailing into
incoherence; he is dreadful to behold.
I did not see him until the end of the second dance. He was in the
ante-room and presented a good example of protective colouring. He was
standing with his back to a dark screen, and his pale face and light
hair were indistinguishable against a background of flowers worked in
gold thread. His attitude as he tightly grasped his programme behind
him was that of a wounded dove at bay.
I signalled to him, but, although I was only a few feet away, he could
not see me. He had apparently also lost all power of movement. I took
him by the arm and led him to the buffet, and, although he never takes
alcohol, I felt justified in forcing some brandy between his lips.
This revived him a little, and he said in a well-modulated voice: "The
surface of the floor is excellent. It is rather warm and oppressive
(or cold and chilly). I adore dancing; it both exercises the body
and refreshes the mind; but unfortunately I have not had many
opportunities of indulging in the art."