He became possessed, bowing, scraping, advancing, retreating, wagging his beard, cutting pigeons' wings, distraught with the music, the clamour, the applause, the effects of the fertiliser.
Annixter shouted: "Nice eye, Santa Claus." But Annixter's attention wandered.

He searched for Hilma Tree, having still in mind the look in her eyes at that swift moment of danger.

He had not seen her since then.

At last he caught sight of her.

She was not dancing, but, instead, was sitting with her "partner" at the end of the barn near her father and mother, her eyes wide, a serious expression on her face, her thoughts, no doubt, elsewhere.