"Shut up, Tommy!" she continued. "You're always talking about your
eyesight. I warn you, if you say too much about it you'll lose your
place. We don't want blind fiddlers in the Brilliant. Put down you
catgut screamer, and fetch me a pint. Ask for the Vere's own
tipple--they'll twig!"
Tommy obeyed, and shuffled off on his errand. As he departed,--a little
man with a very red face, wearing a stove-pipe hat very much on one
side, bounced on the stage as if some one had thrown him there like a
ball.
"Now, ladies, ladies!" he shouted warningly. "Attention! Once again,
please! The last figure once again!" The straggling groups scrambled
hastily into something like order, and the little man continued--"One,
two, three! Advance--retreat--left, right! Very well, indeed! Arms up a
little more, Miss Jenkins--so! toes well pointed--curtsy--retire! One,
two, three! swift slide to the left wing--forward! Round--take
hands--all smile, please!" This general smile was apparently not quite
satisfactory, for he repeated persuasively--"All smile, please! So!
Round again--more quickly--now break the circle in a centre--enter Miss
Vere--" he paused, growing still redder in the face, and demanded, "Where
is Miss Vere?"
He was standing just beneath the painted bough of the sham tree, and in
one second his hat was dexterously kicked off, and two heels met with a
click round his neck.
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