Juggernaut

								

deal about it, and it was always fun to pretend for a brief time that
she did not have to work for her living.
The huge room was filling rapidly; it was the hour of the thé
dansant.  An orchestra, rich with saxophones, played a waltz that
everyone in France was singing.  It was from the latest musical success
now running in Paris, and it pleased Esther to think she had seen the
piece itself, ten days ago: it made her feel herself au courant of
things new and smart.  Leaning back in her chair she listened to the
insidious little tune that grew more captivating with each repetition,
meanwhile letting her eyes wander happily over the circling figures of
the dancers.  Glamour overspread the scene; she was in the mood to see
only the gracious and gay.  For the moment the obvious boredom of
confirmed pleasure-seekers escaped her entirely; the efforts of spoiled
youth and jaded old age to escape from themselves had no place in the
pattern of the life she saw before her.  No, on the contrary, as she
gazed through half-closed eyes, she fancied she saw a multi-coloured
bed of flowers--flowers in rhythmic motion, that was all.  Delicious
frocks, swirling, floating, delicate shades of rose, mauve,
periwinkle-blue, accents of black, graceful bodies, slender legs and
ankles ... not all so slender, she amended presently, becoming more
critical.  There were lower extremities of the grand-piano type, and
short, fat feet with a look of pincushions resolutely stuffed into
shoes.
Her own slender, well-shod feet would do more than pass muster here,
she reflected with satisfaction.  Indeed, although she was more plainly
dressed than most of the women present, she rejoiced to feel she did
not suffer too much by comparison.  Esther was never dowdy.  She was
not ashamed of her well-tailored coat and skirt, marron in
colour--which went well with her eyes and hair--nor of her little new
felt hat, purchased in Paris.  Her small choker fur was of good
stone-marten, even her gloves and the handkerchief peeping from her
pocket had the correct touch.  Trifles, perhaps, but trifles that
mattered.  She made "good money," and she had always found it paid to
dress well and carefully....  Of course, she would not be able to buy
clothes on her salary from Dr. Sartorius--but what did it matter, for
six months or so?  It was surely worth a sacrifice to remain in France.
Besides, she had a little saved up.
The doctor ... that rather odd, cold creature.  The prospect of working
for him did not fill her with enthusiasm.  What exactly was it she felt
about him?  She strove to analyse her impression, and found herself
thinking only of his small, dull eyes and queer, flat forehead....  He
was an able man, no charlatan, of that she was sure, instinctively.
Primarily, a student, no doubt.  What was his practice like, if indeed
he had any?  Not a good manner for a doctor, too remote, too negative,