I retort with total abandon.

“Come along!”

So, grabbing her tightly and keeping my legs entirely stiff—­as per instructions from my son—­I stalk swiftly along the floor, while she backs with prodigious velocity.  Away we go, an odd four hundred pounds of us, until, exhausted, we collapse against the table where the champagne is being distributed.

Though I have carefully followed the directions of my preceptor, I am aware that the effect produced by our efforts is somehow not the same as his.  I observe him in a close embrace with a willowy young thing, dipping gracefully in the distance.  They pause, sway, run a few steps, stop dead and suddenly sink to the floor—­only to rise and repeat the performance.

So the evening wears gaily on.  I caper round—­now sedately, now deliriously—­knowing that, however big a fool I am making of myself, we are all in the same boat.  My wife is doing it, too, to the obvious annoyance of our daughters.  But this is the smartest ball of the season.  When all the world is dancing it would be conspicuous to loiter in the doorway.  Society has ruled that I must dance—­if what I am doing can be so called.

I am aware that I should not care to allow my clients to catch an unexpected glimpse of my antics with Mrs. Jones; yet to be permitted to dance with her is one of the privileges of our success.  I might dance elsewhere but it would not be the same thing.  Is not my hostess’ hoarse, good-natured, rather vulgar voice the clarion of society?  Did not my wife scheme and plot for years before she managed to get our names on the sacred list of invitations?

To be sure, I used to go to dances enough as a lad; and good times I had too.  The High School Auditorium had a splendid floor; and the girls, even though they were unacquainted with all these newfangled steps, could waltz and polka, and do Sir Roger de Coverley.  Good old days!  I remember my wife—­met her in that old hall.  She wore a white muslin dress trimmed with artificial roses.  I wonder if I properly appreciate the distinction of being asked to Mrs. Jones’ turkey-trotting parties!  My butler and the kitchen-maid are probably doing the same thing in the basement at home to the notes of the usefulman’s accordion—­and having a better time than I am.

It is a pleasure to watch my son or my daughters glide through the intricacies of these modern dances, which the natural elasticity and suppleness of youth render charming in spite of their grotesqueness.  But why should I seek to copy them?  In spite of the fact that I am still rather athletic I cannot do so.  With my utmost endeavor I fail to imitate their grace.  I am getting old.  My muscles are stiff and out of training.  My wind has suffered.  Mrs. Jones probably never had any.