There was a good deal of giggling as the girls came out from the little dressing room and joined their waiting escorts, who stood in a line against the wall, mostly struggling with refractory gloves.  Mr. Sinclair, proprietor of the West Islington Dancing Academy, and host of these little gatherings—­for a consideration of eighteenpence—­did his best, by a running fire of conversation, to set everyone at their ease.  He wore a somewhat rusty frock coat, black trousers, a white dress waistcoat, and a red tie.  Evening dress was not de RIGUEUR!  The money at the door, and that everyone should behave as ladies and gentlemen, were the only things insisted upon.

Mr. Sinclair’s best smile and most correct bow was suddenly in evidence.

“Mademoiselle Violet!” he exclaimed to a lady who came in alone, “we are enchanted.  We feared that you had deserted us.  There is a young gentleman inside who is going to be made very happy.  One shilling change, thank you.  Won’t you step into the cloak room?”

The lady shook her head.

“If you don’t mind, Mr. Sinclair,” she said, “I would rather keep my hat and veil on.  I can only stay for a few minutes.  Is Mr. Richardson here, do you know?  Ah!  I can see him.”

She stepped past the Professor into the little dancing hall.  A young lady was pounding upon a piano, a boy at her side was playing the violin.  A few couples were dancing, but most of the company was looking on.  The evening was young, and Mr. Sinclair, who later on officiated as M.C., had not yet made his attack upon the general shyness.  The lady known as Mademoiselle Violet paused and looked around her.  Suddenly she caught sight of a pale, anemic-looking youth, who was standing apart from the others, lounging against the wall.  She moved rapidly towards him.

“How do you do, Mr. Richardson?” she said, holding out her hand.

He started, and a sudden rush of color streamed into his cheeks.  He took her hand awkwardly, and he was almost speechless with nervousness.

“I don’t believe you’re at all glad to see me!” she remarked.

“Oh!  Miss Violet!” he exclaimed.  He would have said more, but the words stuck in his throat.

“Can we sit down somewhere?” she said.  “I want to talk to you.”

There were one or two chairs placed behind a red drugget curtain, where adventurous spirits led their partners later in the evening.  They found a place there, and the young man recovered his power of speech.

“Not glad to see you!” he exclaimed almost vehemently.  “Why, what else do you suppose I come here for every Thursday evening?  I never dance; they all make game of me because they know I come here on the chance of seeing you again.  I’m a fool!  I know that!  You just amuse yourself here with me, and then you go away, back to your friends—­and forget!  And I hang about round here, like the silly ass that I am!”

“My dear—­George!”