On the top floor in the hall the servants in their best clothes leaned over the balustrade, nudging each other, talking in hoarse whispers or pointing with thick fingers swollen with dish-water.

All up and down the stairs were the couples who were sitting out the dance, some of them even upon the circular sofa in the hall over the first landing.
The music stopped, leaving a babel of talk in the air, the couples fell apart for an instant, but a great clapping of hands broke out and the tired musicians heroically recommenced.
As soon as the short _encore_ was done there was a rush for the lemonade and punch bowls.

The guests thronged around them joking each other.
"Hello! are you here _again_ ?" "Oh, this is dreadful!" "This makes _six_ times I've seen you here." A smell of coffee rose into the air from the basement.

It was about half-past eleven; the next dance was the supper dance and the gentlemen hurried about anxiously searching the stairs, the parlours, and the conservatory for the girls who had promised them this dance weeks before.

The musicians were playing a march, and the couples crowded down the narrow stairs in single file, the ladies drawing off their gloves.
The tired musicians stretched themselves, rubbed their eyes, and began to talk aloud in the deserted parlours.
Supper was served in the huge billiard-room in the basement and was eaten in a storm of gayety.