She was incredibly nervous on the appointed evening, and sat shivering beside Lawrence in the car, thinking that her hair would come down if she tried to move the pin that was sticking into her head. Her hands were cold, and she felt rather sick, as if she were on her way to the dentist. The light-hearted demeanour of her father and of Denis Benson sitting opposite made her feel much worse; she would have liked to tell them how frightened she was so that they could reassure her, but that was quite impossible.

Some of the nervousness left her when she stood in the ball-room. The orchestra was playing very loudly, and nearly everyone was dancing and did not notice her. Denis took her programme and asked if he might have every third dance.

Elizabeth thought suddenly how nice Denis was to want all those dances. He looked so pleased when she smiled her consent that she felt it was not mere politeness that had made him ask. She had known him for such a long time too that it would not matter so much if she stepped on him or was heavy.

“And this one?” said Denis, “before someone else grabs it?”

No one had been introduced to her yet, so no one was likely to grab it, but it was rather flattering that Denis should think someone might.

“If you like,” she said. “You know—I don’t dance a bit well. I’ve only had three lessons.”

“Oh, rot!” Denis said, piloting her carefully round one corner. “You dance toppingly. Light as a feather. Jolly tune, what?”

It was the first time Elizabeth had been in a man’s arms; she felt bewildered, shy, and unlike herself. Denis held her very close, with one hand over her shoulder-blade; its warmth, through her frock, struck her as being too familiar and just a little horrid. Sometimes his knee touched hers, and that was worse. She thought how she had always hated to be held, even by her father, and wondered whether she would ever grow to like dancing. Occasionally she saw Lawrence, over Denis’ shoulder, and whenever she caught his eye he smiled and nodded at her in a way which showed her that he was pleased.

The dance came to an end; Elizabeth slipped out of Denis’ arms, panting a little, and flushed. Mrs. Carfew came up, trailing black satin and jet, and murmured names. An alarming kaleidoscope of men scribbled their names on her programme, quite illegibly, and drifted away. Lawrence’s voice sounded in her ear.

“Is my little girl enjoying herself?” it asked fondly.

Elizabeth gave him a bright smile, and said yes, it was lovely. Then Denis took her to the room where the refreshments were spread out, and gave her cider-cup which seemed to Elizabeth quite the nicest drink she had ever tasted, and certainly the most daring.