"I don't feel that I have been at all prettily welcomed--have I, Mrs.
Friend? Lord Buntingford never allows one a single good mark. He says I
have been idle all the winter since the Armistice. I haven't. I've worked
like a nigger!"

"How many dances a week, Helena?--and how many boys?" Helena first made a
face, and then laughed out.

"As many dances--of course--as one could stuff in--without taxis. I
could walk down most of the boys. But Hampstead, Chelsea, and Curzon
Street, all in one night, and only one bus between them--that did
sometimes do for me."

"When did you set up this craze?"

"Just about Christmas--I hadn't been to a dance for a year. I had been
slaving at canteen work all day"--she turned to Mrs. Friend--"and doing
chauffeur by night--you know--fetching wounded soldiers from railway
stations. And then somebody asked me to a dance, and I went. And next
morning I just made up my mind that everything else in the world was
rot, and I would go to a dance every night. So I chucked the canteen and
I chucked a good deal of the driving--except by day--and I just
dance--and dance!"

Suddenly she began to whistle a popular waltz--and the next minute the
two elder people found themselves watching open-mouthed the whirling
figure of Miss Helena Pitstone, as, singing to herself, and absorbed
apparently in some new and complicated steps, she danced down the whole
length of the drawing-room and back again. Then out of breath, with a