Cornelian’s neighbour kicked him furtively on the shin, and frowned in the direction of a dark-haired youth reclining in an adjacent chair.  The youth in question rose from his seat and stalked into the further swelter room.

“So clever of him to go into the furnace room,” said the unabashed Cornelian; “now if he turns scarlet all over we shall never know how much is embarrassment and how much is due to the process of being boiled.  La Yeovil hasn’t done badly by the exchange; he’s better looking than Ronnie.”

“I see that Pitherby went as Frederick the Great,” said Cornelian’s neighbour, fingering a sheet of the Dawn.

“Isn’t that exactly what one would have expected Pitherby to do?” said Cornelian.  “He’s so desperately anxious to announce to all whom it may concern that he has written a life of that hero.  He had an uninspiring-looking woman with him, supposed to represent Military Genius.”

“The Spirit of Advertisement would have been more appropriate,” said the other.

“The opening scene of the Revel was rather effective,” continued Cornelian; “all the Shadow people reclined in the dimly-lit centre of the ballroom in an indistinguishable mass, and the human characters marched round the illuminated sides of the room to solemn processional music.  Every now and then a shadow would detach itself from the mass, hail its partner by name, and glide out to join him or her in the procession.  Then, when the last shadows had found their mates and every one was partnered, the lights were turned up in a blaze, the orchestra crashed out a whirl of nondescript dance music, and people just let themselves go.  It was Pandemonium.  Afterwards every one strutted about for half an hour or so, showing themselves off, and then the legitimate programme of dances began.  There were some rather amusing incidents throughout the evening.  One set of lancers was danced entirely by the Seven Deadly Sins and their human exemplars; of course seven couples were not sufficient to make up the set, so they had to bring in an eighth sin, I forget what it was.”

“The sin of Patriotism would have been rather appropriate, considering who were giving the dance,” said the other.

“Hush!” exclaimed Cornelian nervously.  “You don’t know who may overhear you in a place like this.  You’ll get yourself into trouble.”

“Wasn’t there some rather daring new dance of the ‘bunny-hug’ variety?” asked the indiscreet one.

“The ‘Cubby-Cuddle,’” said Cornelian; “three or four adventurous couples danced it towards the end of the evening.”

“The Dawn says that without being strikingly new it was strikingly modern.”

“The best description I can give of it,” said Cornelian, “is summed up in the comment of the Grafin von Tolb when she saw it being danced:  ’if they really love each other I suppose it doesn’t matter.’  By the way,” he added with apparent indifference, “is there any detailed account of my costume in the Dawn?”