All the young ladies were annoyed at the interruption, and we gentlemen
were more or less sulky over all the affronts that we had endured. But
the lady who had to play was quite in despair. She had merely received
orders to play something purely national; and no matter how often she
asked what dance it was to be, uncle would only stare politely at her
over his spectacles, and swear that this would be another kind of dance.

As far as Uncle Ivar was concerned, 'Sons of Norway' was no doubt good
enough for any or every dance; and as to the dance itself, the music was
really not so very important; for, you see, it happened in this way:

Uncle Ivar came swinging in with one arm by his side, and tall,
respectable Mrs. Knoph on the other. He placed her with a chivalrous
sweep in the middle of the floor, bowed in the fashion of elderly
gallants, with head down between his legs and arms hanging in front, but
quickly straightened himself up again and looked about with a provoking
smile.

Uncle Ivar, without a coat and with vest unbuttoned, was a sight to see
in a ball-room. A flaming red poll, one of the points of his collar up
and one down, his false shirtfront thrust under a pair of home-made
braces, which were green, two white bands of tape hanging down, a tuft
of woollen shirt visible here and there.

But one began to respect the braces when one saw what they carried--a
trousers-button as big as a square-sail, and another behind--I am sure
that one could have written 'Constantinople' in full across it in a
large hand.