“You see, it will be barefoot,” she explained to Mr. Dialin.

The walls of London were already billed with an early announcement of the marvels of the Pageant of Terpsichore, which was to occur at the Albert Hall, under the superintendence of the greatest modern English painters, in aid of a fund for soldiers disabled by deafness.  The performers were all ladies of the upper world, ladies bearing names for the most part as familiar as the names of streets—­and not a stage-star among them.  Amateurism was to be absolutely untainted by professionalism in the prodigious affair; therefore the prices of tickets ruled high, and queens had conferred their patronage.

Lady Queenie removed several bracelets and a necklace, and, seizing a plate, deposited it on the carpet.

“That piece of bread-and-butter,” she said, “is the head of my beloved John.”

The clever footman started the gramophone, and Lady Queenie began to dance.  The lance-corporal walked round her, surveying her at all angles, watching her like a tiger, imitating movements, suggesting movements, sketching emotions with his arm, raising himself at intervals on the toes of his thick boots.  After a few moments Concepcion glanced at G.J., conveying to him a passionate, adoring admiration of Queen’s talent.

G.J., startled by her brightened eyes so suddenly full of temperament, nodded to please her.  But the fact was that he saw naught to admire in the beautiful and brazen amateur’s performance.  He wondered that she could not have discovered something more original than to follow the footsteps of Maud Allan in a scene which years ago had become stale.  He wondered that, at any rate, Concepcion should not perceive the poor, pretentious quality of the girlish exhibition.  And as he looked at the mincing Dialin he pictured the lance-corporal helping to serve a gun.  And as he looked at the youthful, lithe Queenie posturing in the shower-bath of rays amid the blazing chromatic fantasy of the room, and his nostrils twitched to her pungent perfume, he pictured the reverberating shell-factory on the Clyde where girls had their scalps torn off by unappeasable machinery, and the filling-factory where five thousand girls stripped themselves naked in order to lessen the danger of being blown to bits....  After a climax of capering Queen fell full length on her stomach upon the carpet, her soft chin accurately adjusted to the edge of the plate.  The music ceased.  The gramophone gnashed on the disc until the footman lifted its fang.

Miss I-forget-your-name raised both her feet from the floor, stuck her legs out in a straight, slanting line, and condescendingly clapped.  Then, seeing that Queen was worrying the piece of bread-and-butter with her teeth, she exclaimed in agitation: 

“Ow my!”

Mr. Dialin assisted the breathless Queen to rise, and they went off into a corner and he talked to her in low tones.  Soon he looked at his wrist-watch and caught the summoning eye of Miss I-forget-your-name.