Yes."

The romantic side of Mr. Carmyle's nature could have cried aloud at the
hideous unworthiness of these banalities. In the visions which he had
had of himself as a successful wooer, it had always been in the moments
immediately succeeding the all-important question and its whispered
reply that he had come out particularly strong. He had been accustomed
to picture himself bending with a proud tenderness over his partner in
the scene and murmuring some notably good things to her bowed head. How
could any man murmur in a pandemonium like this. From tenderness Bruce
Carmyle descended with a sharp swoop to irritability.

"Do you often come here?"

"Yes."

"What for?"

"To dance."

Mr. Carmyle chafed helplessly. The scene, which should be so romantic,
had suddenly reminded him of the occasion when, at the age of twenty, he
had attended his first ball and had sat in a corner behind a potted palm
perspiring shyly and endeavouring to make conversation to a formidable
nymph in pink. It was one of the few occasions in his life at which he
had ever been at a complete disadvantage. He could still remember the
clammy discomfort of his too high collar as it melted on him. Most
certainly it was not a scene which he enjoyed recalling; and that
he should be forced to recall it now, at what ought to have been the
supreme moment of his life, annoyed him intensely. Almost angrily he
endeavoured to jerk the conversation to a higher level.

"Darling," he murmured, for by moving his chair two feet to the right
and bending sideways he found that he was in a position to murmur, "you
have made me so..."

"Batti, batti! I presto ravioli hollandaise," cried one of the disputing
waiters at his back--or to Bruce Carmyle's prejudiced hearing it sounded
like that.

"La Donna e mobile spaghetti napoli Tettrazina," rejoined the second
waiter with spirit.

"... you have made me so..."

"Infanta Isabella lope de Vegas mulligatawny Toronto," said the first
waiter, weak but coming back pluckily.

"... so happy..."

"Funiculi funicula Vincente y Blasco Ibanez vermicelli sul campo della
gloria risotto!" said the second waiter clinchingly, and scored a
technical knockout.

Bruce Carmyle gave it up, and lit a moody cigarette. He was oppressed by
that feeling which so many of us have felt in our time, that it was all
wrong.

The music stopped. The two leading citizens of Little Italy vanished and
went their way, probably to start a vend