The Gate Crasher

Women in fur wraps and expensive shawls were climbing the short flight of marble steps that led to the ballroom, which was on the floor above. At the foot of the stairs a heavy red velour cord had been slung from side to side, and had to be unhooked and lifted out of the way before any one could go by. A number of attendants in livery were gathered about it, scrutinizing everybody who came in.

My heart failed me at the sight of them. Frankie had been right, you couldn’t get in here for love nor money unless you had an invitation. Just then a member of the party that had come in ahead of me turned to her escort and I heard her say:

“I wonder if Hugh Crawley has arrived yet?”

That was all I needed to know, I waited until they had gone upstairs, then I strolled languidly over toward the group of ushers.

“What is the name, please?” I was asked immediately.

“Mr. Hugh Crawley,” I announced with a supercilious lift of the eyebrows.

One of them looked for it in a flat book he had charge of, containing the list of invited guests, no doubt. As soon as he had found it he crossed it off. They unfastened the cord and let me go through. I had all I could do to keep from laughing. It had been so easy. I didn’t stop to think what might happen if the real Hugh Crawley should put in an appearance later in the evening. All I cared about was that I had got in. I walked jauntily up the stairs and as I reached the top of the staircase I could hear the orchestra in the ballroom playing “Here I am! Here I Am!” It would have been hard for them to have chosen a more appropriate number. Here I was, indeed, although nobody had found it out yet.

I checked my things at one of the little electrically lighted booths provided for that purpose, lit a cigaret and then sauntered casually in. It was the most beautiful ballroom I have ever seen, and I have seen some good-looking ones in my time. The ceiling was mirrored, and when you looked up at it every one seemed to be standing on their heads. The lights were all a deep blue. It took my breath away. But not for long. You get used to that sort of thing very quickly, and anyway I wasn’t there to admire the decorations. I looked around to see if I could carve myself a dance.

There were no wallflowers. There never are at these dances nowadays. Every one gets off to an even start, and the girls that lose out in the race for popularity don’t sit around afterward with crepe on their shoulders. Instead they go off to some place where there is less competition. I didn’t want any of that kind anyway. When a girl isn’t as popular as she should be, it’s usually because there is something the matter with her dancing — or she stutters or she lives out at Port Washington and expects some one to take her home sometime around dawn.

I knew from long experience that at a debutante party like this everybody has their dance cards filled out and in working order weeks ahead of time, so the only thing for me to do if I expected to get anywhere was to cut in. At college dances cutting-in is very much in order. I wasn’t sure about an affair of this kind; sometimes they do and sometimes they don’t, but I made up my mind to try my luck anyway. Let me say right here that it’s a terrible chance for any one to take. To be turned down flat, as they call it, in the middle of a crowded ballroom floor with everybody looking on is about the worst that can happen to you. You may as well go straight home when that happens. Because no girl will let you cut in after she has seen some other girl pass you over. She can’t afford to, because no one wants to be seen with a left-over.

I waited where I was until I saw some one in shell pink come gliding along. Her eyes were like stars and she seemed to be having the time of her life. She wore little silver slippers and had an orchid on her shoulder. She saw me looking at her and gave a little ghost of a smile, as though wondering what I intended doing. I dropped my cigaret into a big Chinese vase that stood by the door and started out after her. She was going so fast I had to follow her half the length of the room. I touched her partner on the shoulder to attract his attention. They stopped and he turned around and looked at me. She smiled again when she saw me and looked at him as though asking his permission. I bowed. He bowed and stepped aside.

“Thank you,” I murmured.

The girl and I began to dance at once. We got around the room twice, I think, and then some one cut in on us. I was sorry to see her go because the next one was by no means as good a dancer. In the course of the next hour I danced with at least fifteen or twenty different girls. Then, just as I was beginning to have a good time and know some of them by their first names, my shoes started in to hurt. It got so that finally I couldn’t stand it any longer. My feet burned like hot coals. It was all I could do to limp away, glad to be free for the moment.