The odor was as strange an
accompaniment to dancing as was that furiously whirling primitive
iteration of the fiddle.
"Over here!" cried Mrs. Powers, dragging masterfully at her partner. She
gave a sigh of satisfaction, caught at his hand and held it high. "All
ready, Frank," she said.
Facing them, near the doorway stood Frank and Nelly, their heads up,
Nelly's small high-heeled shoe thrust forward, their clasped hands held
high. Vincent felt his blood move more quickly at the spectacle they
made. On one side stood Marise Crittenden, her fingers clasped by the
huge knotted hand of 'Gene Powers, and on the other was rounded, rosy
old Mr. Bayweather holding by the hand the oldest Powers child, a pretty
blonde girl of twelve.
Frank's voice pealed out above the jig-jig-jigging of the fiddle.
"_Salute_ your partners!"
Vincent had a qualm of a feeling he thought he had left behind him with
his boyhood, real embarrassment, fear of appearing at a disadvantage.
What in the world did their antiquated lingo _mean?_ Was he to _kiss_
that old woman?
Mrs. Powers said reassuringly, "Don't you worry. Just do what the others
do."
As she spoke she was holding out her skirts and dipping to a courtesy. A
little later, he caught at the idea and sketched a bow such as to his
astonishment he saw the other men executing.
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