I had not thought of dancing. My guests were oddly assorted, of
varying ages and conditions, and I had gathered them in for an
evening away from their usual routine rather than with the view of
getting a congenial group together, and the realization of social
blundering was upon me. Dancing might do what I could not.

To dance in my sitting-room would be difficult. The few things in
the room adjoining it could be easily pushed against the wall,
however, and quickly Fannie Harris and Mr. Guard began to make it
ready. And while they made ready, Mr. Crimm was invited to sing.

Mr. Crimm is my good friend. I had never known a policeman before I
came to Scarborough Square, but I shall always be glad I know him.
He is a remarkable man. He has been Mrs. Crimm's husband for thirty
years and has his first drink to take.

As I played the opening notes of "Molly, My Darling, There's No One
Like You," Mr. Crimm took his place by the piano. Straight and
important, shoulders back, and a fat right hand laid over a fat left
one, both of which rested just above the belt around his
well-developed waist, he surveyed the silent company with blinking,
twinkling eyes. Mrs. Crimm, struggling between righteous pride in
the possession of so handsome a piece of property as her
blue-uniformed and brass-buttoned husband, and the necessity of
subduing all emotions save that of respect, due to the recent death
of her brother, sat upright in her chair, hands clasped in her lap,
and eyes fastened on the floor. Not until the song was over did she
lift them.