The windows were wide open, and Carlton House Terrace was agog with
ragtime. The saxophone, Lord of Misrule, swerved and staggered, and the
band with it, playing such tricks with rhythm as a juggler will play
with a plate. The bladder entering into the soul, an elegant company was
dancing hilariously and letting the world slip with an efficiency which
Epicurus himself must have applauded.
Two of the dancers, however, were not smiling, and, though they passed
through the press with an ease and grace of movement which few other
couples could display, neither of their hearts was wearing a
wedding-garment.
Suddenly the girl turned and looked into her partner’s eyes.
“Derry,” said Rosemary Chase, “I’ve known you a heap of years.”
“That’s right,” said Derry Peruke. “Ever since you were sweet seven and
I was a beastly fifteen.”
The tall, dark girl looked away.
“I don’t remember you being beastly,” she said. “Never mind. Seventeen
years ought to beget an understanding.”
“They have,” said Derry Peruke.
The two danced the length of the great chamber without a word, the man
knowing what was coming and the woman wondering whether he had an idea.