The Man with Two Left Feet, and Other Stories

by P. G. Wodehouse

  THE MAN WITH TWO LEFT FEET

  Students of the folk-lore of the United States of America are no doubtfamiliar with the quaint old story of Clarence MacFadden. ClarenceMacFadden, it seems, was 'wishful to dance, but his feet wasn't gaitedthat way. So he sought a professor and asked him his price, and said hewas willing to pay. The professor' (the legend goes on) 'looked downwith alarm at his feet and marked their enormous expanse; and he tackedon a five to his regular price for teaching MacFadden to dance.'

  I have often been struck by the close similarity between the case ofClarence and that of Henry Wallace Mills. One difference alone presentsitself. It would seem to have been mere vanity and ambition thatstimulated the former; whereas the motive force which drove Henry Millsto defy Nature and attempt dancing was the purer one of love. He did itto please his wife. Had he never gone to Ye Bonnie Briar-Bush Farm,that popular holiday resort, and there met Minnie Hill, he woulddoubtless have continued to spend in peaceful reading the hours notgiven over to work at the New York bank at which he was employed aspaying-cashier. For Henry was a voracious reader. His idea of apleasant evening was to get back to his little flat, take off his coat,put on his slippers, light a pipe, and go on from the point where hehad left off the night before in his perusal of the BIS-CAL volume ofthe _Encyclopaedia Britannica_--making notes as he read in a stoutnotebook. He read the BIS-CAL volume because, after many days, he hadfinished the A-AND, AND-AUS, and the AUS-BIS. There was somethingadmirable--and yet a little horrible--about Henry's method of study. Hewent after Learning with the cold and dispassionate relentlessness of astoat pursuing a rabbit. The ordinary man who is paying instalments onthe _Encyclopaedia Britannica_ is apt to get over-excited and toskip impatiently to Volume XXVIII (VET-ZYM) to see how it all comes outin the end. Not so Henry. His was not a frivolous mind. He intended toread the _Encyclopaedia_ through, and he was not going to spoilhis pleasure by peeping ahead.

  It would seem to be an inexorable law of Nature that no man shall shineat both ends. If he has a high forehead and a thirst for wisdom, hisfox-trotting (if any) shall be as the staggerings of the drunken;while, if he is a good dancer, he is nearly always petrified from theears upward. No better examples of this law could have been found thanHenry Mills and his fellow-cashier, Sidney Mercer. In New York bankspaying-cashiers, like bears, tigers, lions, and other fauna, are alwaysshut up in a cage in pairs, and are consequently dependent on eachother for entertainment and social intercourse when business is slack.Henry Mills and Sidney simply could not find a subject in common.Sidney knew absolutely nothing of even such elementary things as Abana,Aberration, Abraham, or Acrogenae; while Henry, on his side, wasscarcely aware that there had been any developments in the dance sincethe polka. It was a relief to Henry when Sidney threw up his job tojoin the chorus of a musical comedy, and was succeeded by a man who,though full of limitations, could at least converse intelligently onBowls.

  Such, then, was Henry Wallace Mills. He was in the middle thirties,temperate, studious, a moderate smoker, and--one would have said--abachelor of the bachelors, armour-plated against Cupid's well-meant butobsolete artillery. Sometimes Sidney Mercer's successor in the teller'scage, a sentimental young man, would broach the topic of Woman andMarriage. He would ask Henry if he ever intended to get married. Onsuch occasions Henry would look at him in a manner which was a blend ofscorn, amusement, and indignation; and would reply with a single word:

  'Me!'

  It was the way he said it that impressed you.

  But Henry had yet to experience the unmanning atmosphere of a lonelysummer resort. He had only just reached the position in the bank wherehe was permitted to take his annual vacation in the summer. Hitherto hehad always been released from his cage during the winter months, andhad spent his ten days of freedom at his flat, with a book in his handand his feet on the radiator. But the summer after Sidney Mercer'sdeparture they unleashed him in August.

  It was meltingly warm in the city. Something in Henry cried out for thecountry. For a month before the beginning of his vacation he devotedmuch of the time that should have been given to the _EncyclopaediaBritannica_ in reading summer-resort literature. He decided atlength upon Ye Bonnie Briar-Bush Farm because the advertisements spokeso well of it.

  Ye Bonnie Briar-Bush Farm was a rather battered frame building manymiles from anywhere. Its attractions included a Lovers' Leap, a Grotto,golf-links--a five-hole course where the enthusiast found unusualhazards in the shape of a number of goats tethered at intervals betweenthe holes--and a silvery lake, only portions of which were used as adumping-ground for tin cans and wooden boxes. It was all new andstrange to Henry and caused him an odd exhilaration. Something ofgaiety and reckless abandon began to creep into his veins. He had acurious feeling that in these romantic surroundings some adventureought to happen to him.

  At this juncture Minnie Hill arrived. She was a small, slim girl,thinner and paler than she should have been, with large eyes thatseemed to Henry pathetic and stirred his chivalry. He began to think agood deal about Minnie Hill.

  And then one evening he met her on the shores of the silvery lake. Hewas standing there, slapping at things that looked like mosquitoes, butcould not have been, for the advertisements expressly stated that nonewere ever found in the neighbourhood of Ye Bonnie Briar-Bush Farm, whenalong she came. She walked slowly, as if she were tired. A strangethrill, half of pity, half of something else, ran through Henry. Helooked at her. She looked at him.

  'Good evening,' he said.

  They were the first words he had spoken to her. She never contributedto the dialogue of the dining-room, and he had been too shy to seek herout in the open.

  She said 'Good evening,' too, tying the score. And there was silencefor a moment.

  Commiseration overcame Henry's shyness.

  'You're looking tired,' he said.

  'I feel tired.' She paused. 'I overdid it in the city.'

  'It?'

  'Dancing.'

  'Oh, dancing. Did you dance much?'

  'Yes; a great deal.'

  'Ah!'

  A promising, even a dashing start. But how to continue? For the firsttime Henry regretted the steady determination of his methods with the_Encyclopaedia_. How pleasant if he could have been in a positionto talk easily of Dancing. Then memory reminded him that, though he hadnot yet got up to Dancing, it was only a few weeks before that he hadbeen reading of the Ballet.

  'I don't dance myself,' he said, 'but I am fond of reading about it.Did you know that the word "ballet" incorporated three distinct modernwords, "ballet", "ball", and "ballad", and that ballet-dancing wasoriginally accompanied by singing?'

  It hit her. It had her weak. She looked at him with awe in her eyes.One might almost say that she gaped at Henry.

  'I hardly know anything,' she said.

  'The first descriptive ballet seen in London, England,' said Henry,quietly, 'was "The Tavern Bilkers", which was played at Drury Lanein--in seventeen--something.'

  'Was it?'

  'And the earliest modern ballet on record was that given by--by someoneto celebrate the marriage of the Duke of Milan in 1489.'

  There was no doubt or hesitation about the date this time. It wasgrappled to his memory by hoops of steel owing to the singularcoincidence of it being also his telephone number. He gave it out witha roll, and the girl's eyes widened.

  'What an awful lot you know!'

  'Oh, no,' said Henry, modestly. 'I read a great deal.'

  'It must be splendid to know a lot,' she said, wistfully. 'I've neverhad time for reading. I've always wanted to. I think you're wonderful!'

  Henry's soul was expanding like a flower and purring like awell-tickled cat. Never in his life had he been admired by a woman. Thesensation was intoxicating.

  Silence fell upon them. They started to walk back to the farm, warnedby the distant ringing of a bell that supper was about to materialize.It was not a musical bell, but distance and the magic of this unusualmoment lent it charm. The sun was setting. I
t threw a crimson carpetacross the silvery lake. The air was very still. The creatures,unclassified by science, who might have been mistaken for mosquitoeshad their presence been possible at Ye Bonnie Briar-Bush Farm, werebiting harder than ever. But Henry heeded them not. He did not evenslap at them. They drank their fill of his blood and went away to puttheir friends on to this good thing; but for Henry they did not exist.Strange things were happening to him. And, lying awake that night inbed, he recognized the truth. He was in love.

  After that, for the remainder of his stay, they were always together.They walked in the woods, they sat by the silvery lake. He poured outthe treasures of his learning for her, and she looked at him withreverent eyes, uttering from time to time a soft 'Yes' or a musical'Gee!'

  In due season Henry went back to New York.

  'You're dead wrong about love, Mills,' said his sentimentalfellow-cashier, shortly after his return. 'You ought to get married.'

  'I'm going to,' replied Henry, briskly. 'Week tomorrow.'

  Which stunned the other so thoroughly that he gave a customer whoentered at that moment fifteen dollars for a ten-dollar cheque, and hadto do some excited telephoning after the bank had closed.

  Henry's first year as a married man was the happiest of his life. Hehad always heard this period described as the most perilous ofmatrimony. He had braced himself for clashings of tastes, painfuladjustments of character, sudden and unavoidable quarrels. Nothing ofthe kind happened. From the very beginning they settled down in perfectharmony. She merged with his life as smoothly as one river joinsanother. He did not even have to alter his habits. Every morning he hadhis breakfast at eight, smoked a cigarette, and walked to theUnderground. At five he left the bank, and at six he arrived home, forit was his practice to walk the first two miles of the way, breathingdeeply and regularly. Then dinner. Then the quiet evening. Sometimesthe moving-pictures, but generally the quiet evening, he reading the_Encyclopaedia_--aloud now--Minnie darning his socks, but neverceasing to listen.

  Each day brought the same sense of grateful amazement that he should beso wonderfully happy, so extraordinarily peaceful. Everything was asperfect as it could be. Minnie was looking a different girl. She hadlost her drawn look. She was filling out.

  Sometimes he would suspend his reading for a moment, and look across ather. At first he would see only her soft hair, as she bent over hersewing. Then, wondering at the silence, she would look up, and he wouldmeet her big eyes. And then Henry would gurgle with happiness, anddemand of himself, silently:

  'Can you beat it!'

  It was the anniversary of their wedding. They celebrated it in fittingstyle. They dined at a crowded and exhilarating Italian restaurant on astreet off Seventh Avenue, where red wine was included in the bill, andexcitable people, probably extremely clever, sat round at small tablesand talked all together at the top of their voices. After dinner theysaw a musical comedy. And then--the great event of the night--theywent on to supper at a glittering restaurant near Times Square.

  There was something about supper at an expensive restaurant which hadalways appealed to Henry's imagination. Earnest devourer as he was ofthe solids of literature, he had tasted from time to time its lighterface--those novels which begin with the hero supping in the midst ofthe glittering throng and having his attention attracted to adistinguished-looking elderly man with a grey imperial who is enteringwith a girl so strikingly beautiful that the revellers turn, as shepasses, to look after her. And then, as he sits and smokes, a waitercomes up to the hero and, with a soft '_Pardon, m'sieu!_' handshim a note.

  The atmosphere of Geisenheimer's suggested all that sort of thing toHenry. They had finished supper, and he was smoking a cigar--his secondthat day. He leaned back in his chair and surveyed the scene. He feltbraced up, adventurous. He had that feeling, which comes to all quietmen who like to sit at home and read, that this was the sort ofatmosphere in which he really belonged. The brightness of it all--thedazzling lights, the music, the hubbub, in which the deep-throatedgurgle of the wine-agent surprised while drinking soup blended with theshriller note of the chorus-girl calling to her mate--these things gotHenry. He was thirty-six next birthday, but he felt a youngishtwenty-one.

  A voice spoke at his side. Henry looked up, to perceive Sidney Mercer.

  The passage of a year, which had turned Henry into a married man, hadturned Sidney Mercer into something so magnificent that the spectaclefor a moment deprived Henry of speech. Faultless evening dress clungwith loving closeness to Sidney's lissom form. Gleaming shoes ofperfect patent leather covered his feet. His light hair was brushedback into a smooth sleekness on which the electric lights shone likestars on some beautiful pool. His practically chinless face beamedamiably over a spotless collar.

  Henry wore blue serge.

  'What are you doing here, Henry, old top?' said the vision. 'I didn'tknow you ever came among the bright lights.'

  His eyes wandered off to Minnie. There was admiration in them, forMinnie was looking her prettiest.

  'Wife,' said Henry, recovering speech. And to Minnie: 'Mr Mercer. Oldfriend.'

  'So you're married? Wish you luck. How's the bank?'

  Henry said the bank was doing as well as could be expected.

  'You still on the stage?'

  Mr Mercer shook his head importantly.

  'Got better job. Professional dancer at this show. Rolling in money.Why aren't you dancing?'

  The words struck a jarring note. The lights and the music until thatmoment had had a subtle psychological effect on Henry, enabling him tohypnotize himself into a feeling that it was not inability to dancethat kept him in his seat, but that he had had so much of that sort ofthing that he really preferred to sit quietly and look on for a change.Sidney's question changed all that. It made him face the truth.

  'I don't dance.'

  'For the love of Mike! I bet Mrs Mills does. Would you care for a turn,Mrs Mills?'

  'No, thank you, really.'

  But remorse was now at work on Henry. He perceived that he had beenstanding in the way of Minnie's pleasure. Of course she wanted todance. All women did. She was only refusing for his sake.

  'Nonsense, Min. Go to it.'

  Minnie looked doubtful.

  'Of course you must dance, Min. I shall be all right. I'll sit here andsmoke.'

  The next moment Minnie and Sidney were treading the complicatedmeasure; and simultaneously Henry ceased to be a youngish twenty-oneand was even conscious of a fleeting doubt as to whether he was reallyonly thirty-five.

  Boil the whole question of old age down, and what it amounts to is thata man is young as long as he can dance without getting lumbago, and, ifhe cannot dance, he is never young at all. This was the truth thatforced itself upon Henry Wallace Mills, as he sat watching his wifemoving over the floor in the arms of Sidney Mercer. Even he could seethat Minnie danced well. He thrilled at the sight of her gracefulness;and for the first time since his marriage he became introspective. Ithad never struck him before how much younger Minnie was than himself.When she had signed the paper at the City Hall on the occasion of thepurchase of the marriage licence, she had given her age, he rememberednow, as twenty-six. It had made no impression on him at the time. Now,however, he perceived clearly that between twenty-six and thirty-fivethere was a gap of nine years; and a chill sensation came upon him ofbeing old and stodgy. How dull it must be for poor little Minnie to becooped up night after night with such an old fogy? Other men took theirwives out and gave them a good time, dancing half the night with them.All he could do was to sit at home and read Minnie dull stuff from the_Encyclopaedia_. What a life for the poor child! Suddenly, he feltacutely jealous of the rubber-jointed Sidney Mercer, a man whomhitherto he had always heartily despised.

  The music stopped. They came back to the table, Minnie with a pink glowon her face that made her younger than ever; Sidney, the insufferableass, grinning and smirking and pretending to be eighteen. They lookedlike a couple of children--Henry, catching sight of himself in amirror, w
as surprised to find that his hair was not white.

  Half an hour later, in the cab going home, Minnie, half asleep, wasaroused by a sudden stiffening of the arm that encircled her waist anda sudden snort close to her ear.

  It was Henry Wallace Mills resolving that he would learn to dance.

  Being of a literary turn of mind and also economical, Henry's firststep towards his new ambition was to buy a fifty-cent book entitled_The ABC of Modern Dancing_, by 'Tango'. It would, he felt--notwithout reason--be simpler and less expensive if he should learn thesteps by the aid of this treatise than by the more customary method oftaking lessons. But quite early in the proceedings he was faced bycomplications. In the first place, it was his intention to keep what hewas doing a secret from Minnie, in order to be able to give her apleasant surprise on her birthday, which would be coming round in a fewweeks. In the second place, _The ABC of Modern Dancing_ proved oninvestigation far more complex than its title suggested.

  These two facts were the ruin of the literary method, for, while it waspossible to study the text and the plates at the bank, the home was theonly place in which he could attempt to put the instructions intopractice. You cannot move the right foot along dotted line A B andbring the left foot round curve C D in a paying-cashier's cage in abank, nor, if you are at all sensitive to public opinion, on thepavement going home. And while he was trying to do it in the parlour ofthe flat one night when he imagined that Minnie was in the kitchencooking supper, she came in unexpectedly to ask how he wanted the steakcooked. He explained that he had had a sudden touch of cramp, but theincident shook his nerve.

  After this he decided that he must have lessons.

  Complications did not cease with this resolve. Indeed, they became moreacute. It was not that there was any difficulty about finding aninstructor. The papers were full of their advertisements. He selected aMme Gavarni because she lived in a convenient spot. Her house was in aside street, with a station within easy reach. The real problem waswhen to find time for the lessons. His life was run on such a regularschedule that he could hardly alter so important a moment in it as thehour of his arrival home without exciting comment. Only deceit couldprovide a solution.

  'Min, dear,' he said at breakfast.

  'Yes, Henry?'

  Henry turned mauve. He had never lied to her before.

  'I'm not getting enough exercise.'

  'Why you look so well.'

  'I get a kind of heavy feeling sometimes. I think I'll put on anothermile or so to my walk on my way home. So--so I'll be back a littlelater in future.'

  'Very well, dear.'

  It made him feel like a particularly low type of criminal, but, byabandoning his walk, he was now in a position to devote an hour a dayto the lessons; and Mme Gavarni had said that that would be ample.

  'Sure, Bill,' she had said. She was a breezy old lady with a militarymoustache and an unconventional manner with her clientele. 'You come tome an hour a day, and, if you haven't two left feet, we'll make you thepet of society in a month.'

  'Is that so?'

  'It sure is. I never had a failure yet with a pupe, except one. Andthat wasn't my fault.'

  'Had he two left feet?'

  'Hadn't any feet at all. Fell off of a roof after the second lesson,and had to have 'em cut off him. At that, I could have learned him totango with wooden legs, only he got kind of discouraged. Well, see youMonday, Bill. Be good.'

  And the kindly old soul, retrieving her chewing gum from the panel ofthe door where she had placed it to facilitate conversation, dismissedhim.

  And now began what, in later years, Henry unhesitatingly considered themost miserable period of his existence. There may be times when a manwho is past his first youth feels more unhappy and ridiculous than whenhe is taking a course of lessons in the modern dance, but it is noteasy to think of them. Physically, his new experience caused Henryacute pain. Muscles whose existence he had never suspected came intobeing for--apparently--the sole purpose of aching. Mentally he sufferedeven more.

  This was partly due to the peculiar method of instruction in vogue atMme Gavarni's, and partly to the fact that, when it came to the actuallessons, a sudden niece was produced from a back room to give them. Shewas a blonde young lady with laughing blue eyes, and Henry neverclasped her trim waist without feeling a black-hearted traitor to hisabsent Minnie. Conscience racked him. Add to this the sensation ofbeing a strange, jointless creature with abnormally large hands andfeet, and the fact that it was Mme Gavarni's custom to stand in acorner of the room during the hour of tuition, chewing gum and makingcomments, and it is not surprising that Henry became wan and thin.

  Mme Gavarni had the trying habit of endeavouring to stimulate Henry byfrequently comparing his performance and progress with that of acripple whom she claimed to have taught at some previous time.

  She and the niece would have spirited arguments in his presence as towhether or not the cripple had one-stepped better after his thirdlesson than Henry after his fifth. The niece said no. As well, perhaps,but not better. Mme Gavarni said that the niece was forgetting the waythe cripple had slid his feet. The niece said yes, that was so, maybeshe was. Henry said nothing. He merely perspired.

  He made progress slowly. This could not be blamed upon hisinstructress, however. She did all that one woman could to speed himup. Sometimes she would even pursue him into the street in order toshow him on the side-walk a means of doing away with some of hisnumerous errors of _technique_, the elimination of which wouldhelp to make him definitely the cripple's superior. The misery ofembracing her indoors was as nothing to the misery of embracing her onthe sidewalk.

  Nevertheless, having paid for his course of lessons in advance, andbeing a determined man, he did make progress. One day, to his surprise,he found his feet going through the motions without any definiteexercise of will-power on his part--almost as if they were endowed withan intelligence of their own. It was the turning-point. It filled himwith a singular pride such as he had not felt since his first rise ofsalary at the bank.

  Mme Gavarni was moved to dignified praise.

  'Some speed, kid!' she observed. 'Some speed!'

  Henry blushed modestly. It was the accolade.

  Every day, as his skill at the dance became more manifest, Henry foundoccasion to bless the moment when he had decided to take lessons. Heshuddered sometimes at the narrowness of his escape from disaster.Every day now it became more apparent to him, as he watched Minnie,that she was chafing at the monotony of her life. That fatal supper hadwrecked the peace of their little home. Or perhaps it had merelyprecipitated the wreck. Sooner or later, he told himself, she was boundto have wearied of the dullness of her lot. At any rate, dating fromshortly after that disturbing night, a lack of ease and spontaneityseemed to creep into their relations. A blight settled on the home.

  Little by little Minnie and he were growing almost formal towards eachother. She had lost her taste for being read to in the evenings and haddeveloped a habit of pleading a headache and going early to bed.Sometimes, catching her eye when she was not expecting it, he surprisedan enigmatic look in it. It was a look, however, which he was able toread. It meant that she was bored.

  It might have been expected that this state of affairs would havedistressed Henry. It gave him, on the contrary, a pleasurable thrill.It made him feel that it had been worth it, going through the tormentsof learning to dance. The more bored she was now the greater herdelight when he revealed himself dramatically. If she had beencontented with the life which he could offer her as a non-dancer, whatwas the sense of losing weight and money in order to learn the steps?He enjoyed the silent, uneasy evenings which had supplanted thosecheery ones of the first year of their marriage. The more uncomfortablethey were now, the more they would appreciate their happiness later on.Henry belonged to the large circle of human beings who consider thatthere is acuter pleasure in being suddenly cured of toothache than innever having toothache at all.

  He merely chuckled inwardly, therefore, when, on the
morning of herbirthday, having presented her with a purse which he knew she had longcoveted, he found himself thanked in a perfunctory and mechanical way.

  'I'm glad you like it,' he said.

  Minnie looked at the purse without enthusiasm.

  'It's just what I wanted,' she said, listlessly.

  'Well, I must be going. I'll get the tickets for the theatre while I'min town.'

  Minnie hesitated for a moment.

  'I don't believe I want to go to the theatre much tonight, Henry.'

  'Nonsense. We must have a party on your birthday. We'll go to thetheatre and then we'll have supper at Geisenheimer's again. I may beworking after hours at the bank today, so I guess I won't come home.I'll meet you at that Italian place at six.'

  'Very well. You'll miss your walk, then?'

  'Yes. It doesn't matter for once.'

  'No. You're still going on with your walks, then?'

  'Oh, yes, yes.'

  'Three miles every day?'

  'Never miss it. It keeps me well.'

  'Yes.'

  'Good-bye, darling.'

  'Good-bye.'

  Yes, there was a distinct chill in the atmosphere. Thank goodness,thought Henry, as he walked to the station, it would be differenttomorrow morning. He had rather the feeling of a young knight who hasdone perilous deeds in secret for his lady, and is about at last toreceive credit for them.

  Geisenheimer's was as brilliant and noisy as it had been before whenHenry reached it that night, escorting a reluctant Minnie. After asilent dinner and a theatrical performance during which neither hadexchanged more than a word between the acts, she had wished to abandonthe idea of supper and go home. But a squad of police could not havekept Henry from Geisenheimer's. His hour had come. He had thought ofthis moment for weeks, and he visualized every detail of his big scene.At first they would sit at their table in silent discomfort. ThenSidney Mercer would come up, as before, to ask Minnie to dance. Andthen--then--Henry would rise and, abandoning all concealment, exclaimgrandly: 'No! I am going to dance with my wife!' Stunned amazement ofMinnie, followed by wild joy. Utter rout and discomfiture of thatpin-head, Mercer. And then, when they returned to their table, hebreathing easily and regularly as a trained dancer in perfect conditionshould, she tottering a little with the sudden rapture of it all, theywould sit with their heads close together and start a new life. Thatwas the scenario which Henry had drafted.

  It worked out--up to a certain point--as smoothly as ever it had donein his dreams. The only hitch which he had feared--to wit, thenon-appearance of Sidney Mercer, did not occur. It would spoil thescene a little, he had felt, if Sidney Mercer did not present himselfto play the role of foil; but he need have had no fears on this point.Sidney had the gift, not uncommon in the chinless, smooth-baked type ofman, of being able to see a pretty girl come into the restaurant evenwhen his back was towards the door. They had hardly seated themselveswhen he was beside their table bleating greetings.

  'Why, Henry! Always here!'

  'Wife's birthday.'

  'Many happy returns of the day, Mrs Mills. We've just time for one turnbefore the waiter comes with your order. Come along.'

  The band was staggering into a fresh tune, a tune that Henry knew well.Many a time had Mme Gavarni hammered it out of an aged and unwillingpiano in order that he might dance with her blue-eyed niece. He rose.

  'No!' he exclaimed grandly. 'I am going to dance with my wife!'

  He had not under-estimated the sensation which he had looked forward tocausing. Minnie looked at him with round eyes. Sidney Mercer wasobviously startled.

  'I thought you couldn't dance.'

  'You never can tell,' said Henry, lightly. 'It looks easy enough.Anyway, I'll try.'

  'Henry!' cried Minnie, as he clasped her.

  He had supposed that she would say something like that, but hardly inthat kind of voice. There is a way of saying 'Henry!' which conveyssurprised admiration and remorseful devotion; but she had not said itin that way. There had been a note of horror in her voice. Henry's wasa simple mind, and the obvious solution, that Minnie thought that hehad drunk too much red wine at the Italian restaurant, did not occur tohim.

  He was, indeed, at the moment too busy to analyse vocal inflections.They were on the floor now, and it was beginning to creep upon him likea chill wind that the scenario which he had mapped out was subject tounforeseen alterations.

  At first all had been well. They had been almost alone on the floor,and he had begun moving his feet along dotted line A B with the smoothvim which had characterized the last few of his course of lessons. Andthen, as if by magic, he was in the midst of a crowd--a mad, jiggingcrowd that seemed to have no sense of direction, no ability whatever tokeep out of his way. For a moment the tuition of weeks stood by him.Then, a shock, a stifled cry from Minnie, and the first collision hadoccurred. And with that all the knowledge which he had so painfullyacquired passed from Henry's mind, leaving it an agitated blank. Thiswas a situation for which his slidings round an empty room had notprepared him. Stage-fright at its worst came upon him. Somebody chargedhim in the back and asked querulously where he thought he was going. Ashe turned with a half-formed notion of apologizing, somebody elserammed him from the other side. He had a momentary feeling as if hewere going down the Niagara Rapids in a barrel, and then he was lyingon the floor with Minnie on top of him. Somebody tripped over his head.

  He sat up. Somebody helped him to his feet. He was aware of SidneyMercer at his side.

  'Do it again,' said Sidney, all grin and sleek immaculateness. 'It wentdown big, but lots of them didn't see it.'

  The place was full of demon laughter.

  * * * * *

  'Min!' said Henry.

  They were in the parlour of their little flat. Her back was towardshim, and he could not see her face. She did not answer. She preservedthe silence which she had maintained since they had left therestaurant. Not once during the journey home had she spoken.

  The clock on the mantelpiece ticked on. Outside an Elevated trainrumbled by. Voices came from the street.

  'Min, I'm sorry.'

  Silence.

  'I thought I could do it. Oh, Lord!' Misery was in every note ofHenry's voice. 'I've been taking lessons every day since that night wewent to that place first. It's no good--I guess it's like the old womansaid. I've got two left feet, and it's no use my ever trying to do it.I kept it secret from you, what I was doing. I wanted it to be awonderful surprise for you on your birthday. I knew how sick and tiredyou were getting of being married to a man who never took you out,because he couldn't dance. I thought it was up to me to learn, and giveyou a good time, like other men's wives. I--'

  'Henry!'

  She had turned, and with a dull amazement he saw that her whole facehad altered. Her eyes were shining with a radiant happiness.

  'Henry! Was _that_ why you went to that house--to take dancinglessons?'

  He stared at her without speaking. She came to him, laughing.

  'So that was why you pretended you were still doing your walks?'

  'You knew!'

  'I saw you come out of that house. I was just going to the station atthe end of the street, and I saw you. There was a girl with you, a girlwith yellow hair. You hugged her!'

  Henry licked his dry lips.

  'Min,' he said huskily. 'You won't believe it, but she was trying toteach me the Jelly Roll.'

  She held him by the lapels of his coat.

  'Of course I believe it. I understand it all now. I thought at the timethat you were just saying good-bye to her! Oh, Henry, why ever didn'tyou tell me what you were doing? Oh, yes, I know you wanted it to be asurprise for me on my birthday, but you must have seen there wassomething wrong. You must have seen that I thought something. Surelyyou noticed how I've been these last weeks?'

  'I thought it was just that you were finding it dull.'

  'Dull! Here, with you!'

  'It was after you danced that night with Sidney Me
rcer. I thought thewhole thing out. You're so much younger than I, Min. It didn't seemright for you to have to spend your life being read to by a fellow likeme.'

  'But I loved it!'

  'You had to dance. Every girl has to. Women can't do without it.'

  'This one can. Henry, listen! You remember how ill and worn out I waswhen you met me first at that farm? Do you know why it was? It wasbecause I had been slaving away for years at one of those places whereyou go in and pay five cents to dance with the lady instructresses. Iwas a lady instructress. Henry! Just think what I went through! Everyday having to drag a million heavy men with large feet round a bigroom. I tell you, you are a professional compared with some of them!They trod on my feet and leaned their two hundred pounds on me andnearly killed me. Now perhaps you can understand why I'm not crazyabout dancing! Believe me, Henry, the kindest thing you can do to me isto tell me I must never dance again.'

  'You--you--' he gulped. 'Do you really mean that you can--can stand thesort of life we're living here? You really don't find it dull?'

  'Dull!'

  She ran to the bookshelf, and came back with a large volume.

  'Read to me, Henry, dear. Read me something now. It seems ages and agessince you used to. Read me something out of the _Encyclopaedia_!'

  Henry was looking at the book in his hand. In the midst of a joy thatalmost overwhelmed him, his orderly mind was conscious of somethingwrong.

  'But this is the MED-MUM volume, darling.'

  'Is it? Well, that'll be all right. Read me all about "Mum".'

  'But we're only in the CAL-CHA--' He wavered. 'Oh, well--I' he went on,recklessly. 'I don't care. Do you?'

  'No. Sit down here, dear, and I'll sit on the floor.'

  Henry cleared his throat.

  '"Milicz, or Militsch (d. 1374), Bohemian divine, was the mostinfluential among those preachers and writers in Moravia and Bohemiawho, during the fourteenth century, in a certain sense paved the wayfor the reforming activity of Huss."'

  He looked down. Minnie's soft hair was resting against his knee. He putout a hand and stroked it. She turned and looked up, and he met her bigeyes.

  'Can you beat it?' said Henry, silently, to himself.