The business had its social problems, however. Griselda’s fourth dance had been allocated by Mrs Hatch to an unknown named Mr Coote. She did not know who Mr Coote was, but when she announced his imminence to Kynaston, she was startled to learn that Kynaston had taken it for granted that she would be dancing with him (Kynaston) throughout the evening.
‘You said you wanted me to ward off other males.’
‘Not exactly.’
‘You couldn’t abide being pawed.’
‘Mrs Hatch has arranged the next dance for me.’
‘What do you think I’m going to do? I don’t know a soul here – if anybody here has a soul; and they’re not the kind of people I want to know. Not that I’m likely to be introduced. I’m a mixture of a poor relation and the local tradesman.’
‘What would you have done, if you hadn’t met me?’
‘Contrived to bring Doris. Of course, I much prefer you, but I’ve made a very fair dancer out of Doris, and she’s vastly better than having to talk about the state of the nation with a string of politicians.’
The situation was dissolved by Mrs Hatch appearing with Mr Coote.
‘Let me introduce Mr Coote, Griselda; your next partner. This is Griselda de Reptonville. I told Mr Coote about you while you were out of the house and he asked me for a dance with you.’
‘The reality exceeds the description,’ said Mr Coote.
It was a waltz and Mr Coote was heavy on other people’s feet. While dancing, however, he maintained a steady flow of conventionally complimentary verbiage, of a type which Griselda was surprised to find still existed, but which began heavily to pall in an astonishingly short period of time. Griselda had always understood that men preferred to talk about themselves and tried to direct the conversation in that likely direction. But Mr Coote was unexpectedly reticent. Griselda could only gather that though not in the political limelight, he occupied an entirely indispensable position far behind the scenes.
‘Sort of Chief Foreman, you know. The chap who sees that the roundabout is oiled. Poor sort of job at times, I find it. Let’s talk about something pleasanter. Our excellent hostess told me you had short hair but I never knew short hair could be so attractive.’
Suddenly Griselda noticed something odd. Mrs Hatch was dancing with (and much better than) Pamela.
Mr Coote was, Griselda recollected, the one of her three allotted partners who recurred. He was due to reappear for the next dance but one. Apart from anything else, it seemed poor planning, like selling all the adjoining seats in a theatre, instead of spacing the audience about.
This little trouble solved itself, however, in the very instant that Griselda had thought of it.
As the dance number (it was a bagatelle entitled ‘Mooning with the Moon’) neared its point of cessation, Mr Coote suddenly crumpled up in the most dramatic possible way. He dropped his partner, clutched the lower part of his belly with both hands, became instantly green in the face, and lurched groaning to one of the gilt chairs which had strayed out among the dancers. There he sat, odd pairs of dancers occasionally navigating round the back of him, until two muscular and efficient footmen assisted him away, their hands under his armpits. Now that the music had stopped, his dreadful groans were clearly audible above the hubbub of talk; but so expertly was the incident disposed of, that few were clearly aware of what had happened, and none sustained any notable setback in jollity.
Griselda had been left isolated not far from the centre of the floor, and, so thick were the dancers, could not reach Mr Coote before he was whisked away.
‘If that doesn’t teach you, I cannot imagine what will. You see what happens when you try to fraternize with the people.’ It was, of course, Kynaston. Griselda could have struck him. Then she saw the large shape of George Goss coming towards her, solitary and menacing.
‘Better me, don’t you think, after all?’ said Kynaston, comprehending the entire situation. Griselda, really furious at his deliberate or careless misunderstanding of the need for her to dance with Mr Coote, placed her hand on his arm; and the music started once more, this time a number entitled ‘You Twisted Me Before I Twisted You.’
‘You don’t have to do this the whole time, of course,’ said Kynaston.
‘Indeed no. Later I am partnering a Mr Mackintosh, and after that Edwin Polegate-Hampden for the supper dance.’
‘To hell with them. I didn’t mean that. I meant that we could sit out sometimes.’
Absurdly, Griselda had overlooked this possibility.
Out of the corner of her eye she observed George Goss lumber off the floor disappointed.
‘Don’t I seem to know your unlucky friend?’
‘George Goss,’ said Griselda.
‘I’m flattered that you prefer me. George Goss is the only really first-rank painter now alive in England. Probably in the world. When I looked at his Holy Family at the Leicester Gallery last autumn. I cried like a child.’
It was by no means the end of George Goss, for immediately the dance was over, there he was again.
‘Could we please do what you said,’ appealed Griselda to Kynaston, ‘and sit this one out?’ It was to have been Mr Coote’s second dance, and Griselda considered that even he would have been preferable to George Goss.
‘Let’s look for the refreshments,’ said Kynaston. ‘I expect there are some.’ He put his arm round her waist to lead her away. It was hard on George Goss and Griselda smiled at him as she departed. He stood looking after her, fixed like a toad.
But it was not to be. Mrs Hatch appeared.
‘As Mr Coote has been taken away, I should like you to meet Lord Roller.’ Mrs Hatch’s memory for the details she herself had organized, was appalling.
The great Lord Roller, whose revelations had just shaken the entire world and lay behind the present festivity, was tall and stout, though dignified and wearing the most perfectly cut clothes.
‘Melanie suggests that we should dance,’ he said in an attractive cultivated voice. ‘But I should prefer to sit and talk for just the few minutes allotted to me.’
Griselda consented with relief. Kynaston prowled away, presumably after liquor.
‘It’s not that I never dance. On the contrary, twenty years ago I used to be considered rather good. But I’ve been having a tiring time lately and this evening, as you know, is rather a strain on some of us.’
Griselda said she could well understand. They sat. They had moved round the perimeter of the dance floor looking for two empty chairs and had reached the comparatively inaccessible and deserted window side of the room.
‘However, no more of that. Let us talk of something else. What do you do in the world?’
‘Very little. For various reasons it’s difficult for me to leave home.’
‘That’s bad. The days when women stayed at home are over. For better or for worse. But over, I assure you. What are the reasons, or ought I not to ask?’
Griselda hesitated. But Lord Roller had achieved his position in the world by being under all circumstances unfailingly reasuring.
‘My Mother, mainly.’
‘Illness?’
‘Not exactly. Though she suffers a lot.’
‘I won’t enquire further.’ Changing the subject, he said kindly, pointing out a well-known figure: ‘You know that’s George Goss the painter?’
‘Yes. He’s staying in the house.’
‘I’ve known him since we were at Winchester together. Then he was a splendid young chap. Full of life. Quite irresistable. He did a drawing of me a year or two ago and I must say I thought he’d become something of an ox. When I saw the drawing I realized that he thought the same of me.’