uestion of bread and butter," said Miss Allan calmly. "However,
they seem to expect me." She took up her position and pointed a square
black toe.

"Mr. Hewet, you bow to me." It was evident at once that Miss Allan was
the only one of them who had a thoroughly sound knowledge of the figures
of the dance.

After the lancers there was a waltz; after the waltz a polka; and then
a terrible thing happened; the music, which had been sounding regularly
with five-minute pauses, stopped suddenly. The lady with the great dark
eyes began to swathe her violin in silk, and the gentleman placed his
horn carefully in its case. They were surrounded by couples imploring
them in English, in French, in Spanish, of one more dance, one only; it
was still early. But the old man at the piano merely exhibited his watch
and shook his head. He turned up the collar of his coat and produced
a red silk muffler, which completely dashed his festive appearance.
Strange as it seemed, the musicians were pale and heavy-eyed; they
looked bored and prosaic, as if the summit of their desire was cold meat
and beer, succeeded immediately by bed.

Rachel was one of those who had begged them to continue. When they
refused she began turning over the sheets of dance music which lay upon
the piano. The pieces were generally bound in coloured covers, with
pictures on them of romantic scenes--gondoliers astride on the crescent
of the moon, nuns peering through the bars of a convent window, or young
women with their hair down pointing a gun at the stars. She remembered
that the general effect of the music to which they had danced so gaily
was one of passionate regret for dead love and the innocent years of
youth; dreadful sorrows had always separated the dancers from their past
happiness.

"No wonder they get sick of playing stuff like this," she remarked
reading a bar or two; "they're really hymn tunes, played very fast, with
bits out of Wagner and Beethoven."

"Do you play? Would you play? Anything, so long as we can dance to it!"
From all sides her gift for playing the piano was insisted upon, and
she had to consent. As very soon she had played the only pieces of dance
music she could remember, she went on to play an air from a sonata by
Mozart.

"But that's not a dance," said some one pausing by the piano.

"It is," she replied, emphatically nodding her head. "Invent the steps."
Sure of her melody she marked the rhythm boldly so as to simplify the
way. He