from arm to arm. Darling little pink-and-silver programmes, with pink pencils and fluffy tassels, Leila’s fingers shook as she took one out of the basket. She wanted to ask some one, “Am I meant to have one too?” but she had just time to read: “Waltz 3. Two, Two in a Canoe. Polka 4. Making the Feathers Fly,” when Meg cried, “Ready, Leila?” and they pressed their way through the crush in the passage towards the big double doors of the drill hall.
Dancing had not begun yet, but the band had stopped tuning, and the noise was so great it seemed that when it did begin to play it would never be heard. Leila, pressing close to Meg, looking over Meg’s shoulder, felt that even the little quivering coloured flags strung across the ceiling were talking. She quite forgot to be shy; she forgot how in the middle of dressing she had sat down on the bed with one shoe off and one shoe on and begged her mother to ring up her cousins and say she couldn’t go after all. And the rush of longing she had had to be sitting on the verandah of their forsaken up-country home, listening to the baby owls crying “More pork” in the moonlight, was changed to a rush of joy so sweet that it was hard to bear alone. She clutched her fan, and, gazing at the gleaming, golden floor, the azaleas, the lanterns, the stage at one end with its red carpet and gilt
