Three hundred laughing, chattering people in their best clothes were there, exhilarated by swift movement to music and by the Dovewood Cup, which had been tasted by Mr Joe Knoedler and the Boys and pronounced, in amazed voices, to be not so bad. (Alcohol, in short, could be detected therein.) The ladies went at once to the cloakroom to repair the ravages caused by the drive, while Victor and Mr Andrews, having parked the cars, awaited them in the vestibule. The vestibule had yellow stucco columns, a shabby red carpet with settees to match, and busts of musicians all over it; the Rooms had been locally famous for a series of concerts during the 1880s. Behind the tall swing doors, Victor could see the dancers and hear the music swell and die as the doors swung open; and as he was staring idly, wondering if Knoedler’s Boys were coming up to scratch and how soon he could go home, he saw something familiar drifting past the glass panels. It was a girl’s head, covered with short fair curls.
