“Turpsichor,” in common with other down-at-heel people, had something of a history.  She was originally the plaster cast model of a marble statue ordered by a sorrowing widow to grace the last resting-place of the dear departed, a widow, whose first transports of grief were as extravagant as the order she gave to the monumental mason.  But when the time came for the statue to be carved, and a further deposit to be paid, the widow had been fascinated by a man whom she had met in a ’bus, when on her way to visit the cemetery where her husband was interred.  She was now loth to bear the cost of the statue and, as she had changed her address, she took no notice of the mason’s repeated applications.  “Turpsichor” had then been sold cheap to a man who had started a tea-garden, in the vain hope of reviving the glories of those forgotten institutions; when he had drifted into bankruptcy, she had been knocked down for a song to a second-hand shop, where she had been bought for next to nothing by Mr Poulter as “the very thing.”  Now she stood in the entrance hall of the academy, where, it can truthfully be said, that no heathen goddess received so much adoration and admiration as was bestowed on “Turpsichor” by Mr Poulter and Miss Nippett.  To these simple souls, it was the finest work of art to be found anywhere in the world, while the younger amongst the pupils regarded the forlorn statue with considerable awe.

When a move was made to the ballroom, Miss Nippett whispered to Mavis: 

“If Mr Poulter wins the great cotillion prize competition ‘e’s goin’ in for, I ’ope to stand ‘Turpsichor’ a clean, and a new coat of paint.”

When all three had waited in the ballroom some minutes, the pupils for the night classes straggled in, the “gentlemen” bringing their dancing shoes in their overcoat pockets, the “ladies” theirs, either in net-bags or wrapped in odd pieces of brown paper.  These “ladies” were much of a type, being either shop-girls or lady clerks, with a sprinkling of maid-servants and board school teachers.  They were pale-faced, hard-working, over-dressed young women who read Marie Corelli, and considered her “deep”; who had one adjective with which to express appreciation of things, this “artistic”; anything they condemned was spoken of as “awful”; one and all liked to be considered what they called “up-to-date.”  Marriage they desired more than anything else in the world, not so much that they wished to live in an atmosphere of affection, but because they believed that state promised something of a respite from their never-ending, poorly recompensed toil.  The “gentlemen” were mostly shopmen or weekly paid clerks with social aspirations; they carried silver cigarette cases, which they exhibited on the least provocation.

Mavis played, whilst Mr Poulter put the pupils through their steps.  She had no eyes for the dancers, these not interesting her; her attention, of which she had plenty to spare, was fixed upon the kindly, beaming face and the agile limbs of Mr Poulter.  It was a pleasure to watch him, he so thoroughly enjoyed his work; he could not take enough pains to instruct his pupils in the steps that they should take.  Miss Nippett sat beside Mavis.  Presently, in a few minutes’ interval between the dances, the former said: