oppy's right
eyelid which in a larger woman would have been called a wink; in Poppy
it appeared as an exaggerated twinkle. It was greeted with a roar of
rapturous applause. Then Poppy, with her hands on her hips, and her
head on one side, raised her Cockney voice in a high-pitched song,
executing between each verse a slow, swinging chassee to the stage
Humorist with the concertina.

"Oh, she's my fancy girl,
With 'er 'air all outer curl,
'Ooks orf, eyes orf, petticoats all awry.
For then she isn't shy;
She gives 'er bangs a twirl,
And it's--'Kiss me quick!'--and--'That's the Trick!'
--and--(_dim_)--'_Wouldn't_ yer like to try?'"

When the stage Humorist with the concertina stopped chasseeing, and
put his finger to his nose, and observed, "That's wot you might call a
dim innuender," Rickman could have kicked him.

(_cresc._),
'But got up fit ter kill,
In 'er velverteen an' frill,
It's--'Ands orf!'--'Heyes orf!'--'Fetch yer one in the heye!'--
A strollin' down the 'Igh,
With 'Enery, Alf an' Bill,
It's--'None er that!'--and 'Mind my 'at!'--and
(_fortissimo_)--'WOULDN'T yer like to try!'"

"To try! To try!" Her chassee quickened ever so little, doubled on
itself, and became a tortuous thing. Poppy's feet beat out the measure
that is danced on East End pavements to the music of the concertina.
In the very abandonment of burlesque Poppy remained an artist, and her
dance preserved the gravity of the original ballet, designed for
performance on a flagstone. Now it unfolded; it burst its bounds; it
was a rhythmic stampede. Louder and louder, her clicking heels beat
the furious time; higher and higher her dexterous toes flew to her
feathers that bowed to meet them, and when her last superhuman kick
sent her hat flying, and the Humorist caught it on his head, they had
brought the house down.

Rickman went out to the bar, where he found Dicky Pilkington, and at
Dicky's suggestion he endeavoured to quench with brandy and soda his
inextinguishable thirst.

He returned to the storm and glare of the ballet, the last appearance
of that small, incarnate genius of Folly. There were other dancers,
but he saw none but her. He knew every pose and movement of her body,
from her first tentative, preluding pirouette, to her last moon-struck
dance, when she tossed her tall grenadier's cap to the back of the
stage, and still