The orchestra was playing a polka.

Young Vacca, now at his fiftieth wax candle, had brought the floor to the slippery surface of glass.

The druggist was dancing with one of the Spanish-Mexican girls with the solemnity of an automaton, turning about and about, always in the same direction, his eyes glassy, his teeth set.

Hilma Tree was dancing for the second time with Harran Derrick.

She danced with infinite grace.