“Hullo, Gerda! Hullo, Bob! Look here, you two.” He paused awkwardly, staring at Gerda’s sash. “I don’t want,” he went on, “I don’t want⁠—” He seemed to catch a defiant look on the girl’s face. “I don’t want to break this up till you’ve danced once tonight. So go ahead, for heaven’s sake, as soon as they start.⁠ ⁠… Only, listen, Weevil⁠—” He paused again, and found it necessary to take several long breaths. He had said exactly what he meant to say. He had said it in the tone he meant to adopt. Why, then, were those two staring at him like that, as if he were a ghost? Did his face look funny to them? Was “the form of his visage changed” upon them? “I mean,” he went on; but his voice sounded unsure to his own ears now⁠—unsure and queerly mechanical, as if it issued out of a wooden box. “I mean that you’d better have one good dance, or perhaps two⁠ ⁠… two certainly! Two would be far better than one⁠ ⁠… one dance is nothing⁠ ⁠… What’s one dance? Nothing at all! And then⁠ ⁠… and then⁠ ⁠… what was I going to say? That band’s making such a noise!⁠ ⁠… Oh, then we’ll walk home, Gerda; and perhaps Bob will come with us. But I expect not, with Mr. Valley so jumpy.”