Champagne for One

As a dancing partner Rose Tuttle was not a bargain. She was equipped for it physically and she had some idea of rhythm, that wasn’t it; it was her basic attitude. She danced cheerfully, and of course that was no good. You can’t dance cheerfully. Dancing is too important. It can be wild or solemn or gay or lewd or art for art’s sake, but it can’t be cheerful. For one thing, if you’re cheerful you talk too much. Helen Yarmis was better, or would have been if she hadn’t been too damn solemn. We would work into the rhythm together and get going fine, when all of a sudden she would stiffen up and was just a dummy making motions. She was a good size for me, too, with the top of her head level with my nose, and the closer you get to her wide, curved mouth the better you liked it-when the corners were up.

Robilotti took her for the next one, and a look around showed me that all the guests of honour were taken, and Celia Grantham was heading for me. I stayed put and let her come, and she stopped at arm’s length and tilted her head back.

"Well?" she said.

The tact, I figured, was for the mothers, and there was no point in wasting it on the daughter. So I said, "But is it any better?"

"No," she said, "and it never will be. But how are you going to avoid dancing with me?"

"Easy. Say my feet hurt, and take my shoes off."

She nodded. "You would, wouldn’t you?"

"I could."

"You really would. Just let me suffer. Will I never be in your arms again? Must I carry my heartache to the grave?"