Death of a Huntsman by H.E. Bates Page A

of tears. They gazed back at him, instead, with an almost luminous composure and now, at last, she stretched out her hands.
    â€˜Come along,’ she said. ‘Take me.’
    If there had been no other person on the dance floor as he led her on to it some moments later he could hardly have felt more pained and conspicuous. It was like dancing in some sort of competition, naked, in the middle of an empty field, before a thousand spectators.
    The amazing thing was that whenever he looked at the face of the girl it was still alight with that astonishing luminous composure.
    â€˜Look at me,’ she said once. ‘Keep looking at me.’
    Whether she was thinking of her mother, as he was the whole time, he did not know. He could not see Edna Whittington. But as he danced he became more and more obsessed with the haunting impression that she was watching him from somewhere, evilly and microscopically, waiting for the dance to end.
    When it did end he turned helplessly on the floor, arms still outstretched, very much like a child learning to walk and suddenly deprived of a pair of helping hands. The girl, composed as ever, started to move away, the skin of her back shining golden in the light of the chandeliers. The dress itself looked, as she had meant it to do, more than ever the colour of quinces and he saw on her bare arms a bloom of soft down like that on the skin of the fruit.
    Then as she turned, smiled at him with an amazing triumphant serenity, holding out her arm for him to take, he saw Edna Whittington.
    She was standing not far from the tier of pink chrysanthemums. She did not look, now, like a piece of silver cardboard. She looked exactly like the perfectly straight double-edged blade of a dagger rammed point downwards into the floor: arms perfectly crossed, feet close together, thin body perfectly motionless under the tight silver dress, small microscopic eyes staring straight forward out of a carved white face, fixed on himself and the girl as they crossed the dance floor.
    Suddenly he was no longer uneasy, self-conscious or even disturbed. He began to feel strangely confident,almost antagonistic. And in this sudden change of mood he felt himself guide the arm of the girl, changing her course across the dance floor, steering her straight to Edna Whittington.
    Suddenly the band started playing again. The girl gave a quick little cry of delight, turned to him and put her hands on his shoulders. A moment later they were dancing.
    Then, for what was to be the last time, she spoke of her mother.
    â€˜Is she looking?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Tell me how she looks,’ she said. ‘You know I dance with my eyes closed.’
    â€˜There’s no need to think of her.’
    Whether it was because of this simple remark of his he never knew, but suddenly she rested her face against his and spoke to him in a whisper.
    â€˜You don’t know how happy I am,’ she said. ‘Oh! don’t wake me, will you? Please don’t wake me.’
    She spoke once more as they danced and it was also in a whisper.
    â€˜If I told you I loved you here in the middle of this dance floor would you think it ridiculous?’
    â€˜That’s the last thing I would ever think.’
    â€˜I love you,’ she said.
    At the end of the dance a frigid, pale, supernaturally polite Edna Whittington, holding a glittering yellow cigarette holder in full stretched magenta fingers, met them as they came from the floor. Rigidly and antagonisticallyhe held himself ready to do some sort of brave and impossible battle with her and was surprised to hear her say:
    â€˜You did book our table for supper, didn’t you, Henry?’
    â€˜Of course.’
    â€˜You should have told me where it was,’ she said. ‘Then I could have sat down.’
    Throughout the rest of the evening, until one o’clock, this was as sharp as the tone of her reproach and resentment ever grew. She regarded himself, the girl,