“Why shouldn’t we stake out a claim at the supper-table?,” he asked. “I was wondering if you were dining with the Carstairs next week... Oh, well, don’t you think you might get Lady John to invite you? It’s so very long since I’ve seen you; and it’s impossible to talk here... London hasn’t changed much in the last two years.”
“Or the last five. I wonder if we’re going _straight_ back to 1914... I’ve not been to a party of this kind since the war. It’s not _very_ amusing....”
The scenes from the ballet were followed by a pianoforte solo; Harry Manders poured forth a stream of stories; Deganway gave imitations; and Pentyre accompanied himself on a banjo, until a restless group headed by Gaymer suggested clearing away the furniture for a dance. Eric, too, was finding but little amusement in Mrs. O’Rane’s strenuous programme and would have preferred to talk in peace to Amy Loring or go home to bed. This, he decided, would be the last party of its kind which he could spare time to attend; for a moment he had wandered aimlessly in the wilderness of London, waiting to light upon anything that would occupy his thoughts. Nothing had come to him, and he recognized that he must find his refuge in work.
“I’m too old for this sort of thing,” he murmured to Amy.
“I can’t remember ever being young enough,” she answered with a smile.
The heat and noise were by now almost unbearable; high spirits were rising by imperceptible shrill stages to rowdiness; and, as Gaymer’s deputation pressed insistently for its dance, the older members of the party began to look at their watches.
“Anything you like, if you’ll only wait until every one’s had something to eat—,” cried Mrs. O’Rane, leaving the supper-table to pacify Gaymer.
“Oh, they’ll go on all night, Sonia! We—want—a—dance. Come on, Gerry, all together! Pentyre! One, two, three! We—want—a—dance—We—want—a—dance.”
The three men ranged themselves against a wall and shouted through their open fists like trumpeting heralds.
At the second repetition, those nearest to them joined in the measured, relentless chorus, drowning the efforts of a girl at the piano and reducing Mrs. O’Rane to helpless gesticulation.
“Wait till the end of this!,” she begged in an interval of silence.