LordPeter List Literary Contest

Still thinking of these things Harriet went out into the lounge. Here was the space cleared for dancing, and the little ring of tables; on the platform the orchestra played the Blue Danube, and the sound of the waltz mingled with the thoughts in her head. Here was the centre, she could not help thinking, but her thoughts would keep straying so, to the dancers moving beautifully to the sound of the Blue Danube on the floor. She saw them like foreign creatures, things apart - the young man with his sad, wide, downturned mouth, the girl with her petunia dress blossoming around her. Yes, just like a flower, the dress with its oldfashioned bustling and flowing skirts, moving with the graceful rhythm of its wearer and the music of the Blue Danube.

The girl's feet moved automatically through the steps. Let them! She knew this dance, she knew all the dances. She danced them all beautifully - beautifully, the handsome man in evening dress had said to her last night. Her arm rested on Antoine's shoulder - Antoine, silly Antoine. She let a smile play across her face, but her eyes were not on Antoine's eyes. She smiled again at the man who had danced with her last night. How he had admired her, and how she had blossomed under his admiration. Remembering, she felt it again, the golden glow of her own charm enveloping her. Surely everyone could feel it, everyone sitting around the floor, sipping cocktails or coffee, watching her, watching her dance.

What a coy smile that girl has! Harriet thought, watching. So old-fashioned, like the bustled gown that made her waist so slender. And was not almost every woman here wearing such a gown, trying to recreate a time that maybe had never existed? Autres temps, autres moeurs, Harriet thought. It was bad, it was bad, it was infinitely bad! An illusion of cut and colour, a mockery of expression and glance, of downcast eye and modesty; and yet, what were these women thinking, as they waved their fans, or bowed their heads under the aigrettes -- of the tennis game tomorrow, or the typist's chair the day after that, the beach at noon, the dinner engagement -- and Harriet thought of Peter running down the beach; there was no pretense in that, none, and how he would hate this. Time turned backwards in the magic of a dress, but without happiness, without clarity. She clasped her hands upon the table frowning and, without being aware of it, drew her face into such a habit

of firm composure that the waiter, coming across the floor to her with a cup of black coffee, though he was smiling at the thought that yesterday, the floors being waxed, the dancers had slid about so, could not help noticing, as he set the cup before her, the sternness in her handsome face. It struck him, and he wondered as he passed, what a woman with such a face could want here, and when he reached the kitchen, he was sad.

-- the cat in the bag

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