Voices rose up to them from the floor above the music of the gramophone.
Joan's: "That's the twinkle." Luttrell's: "It's pretty difficult." "Try it again," said Joan.

"Oh, that's ever so much better." "I shall never dare to dance it with any one else," said Luttrell.
"I really don't mind very much about that," Joan responded dryly.
Millie Splay could hardly believe her ears.

Cautiously she and her party advanced on tiptoe to the balustrade and looked down.

Yes, there the pair of them were, now laughing, now in desperate earnest, practising the fox-trot to the music of the gramophone.
"Do I hold you right ?" asked Harry.
"Well--I shan't break, you know," Joan answered demurely, and then with a little sigh, "That's better." Under her breath Stella Croyle murmured passionately, "Oh, you minx!" As the record ran out a storm of applause burst from the gallery.
"Oh, Joan, Joan," cried Harold Jupp, shaking his head reproachfully.
"There's the poet kicked right across the room." "Where ?" asked Harry Luttrell, looking round for the book.
"Oh, it doesn't matter," said Joan impatiently.

"It's only an old volume of Browning." Cries of "Shame" broke indignantly from the race-goers, and Joan received them with imperturbable indifference.