Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 156, June 4, 1919.

Excerpt

THE RULING PASSION.

"Norman is coming to the dance," said my wife.

"He would prefer to be shot," I answered.

"You are coming too, and I want you to look after him."

"I also would prefer to stop one."

"It will do him all the good in the world. He wants bringing out."

When Norman is alone with me he is natural and even interesting at times, but in company he is shy and self-conscious and a burden to himself and his neighbours. He is a young dentist with a large practice, and is already a well-known authority on Japanese methods of extraction. Using only his thumb and forefinger he can remove long-established teeth with so much ease and grace and such a quantity of sangfroid that it is a pleasure to watch him at his work. But to a social gathering he comes limp and infirm of purpose; he feels constrained to utter futile remarks with undue emphasis trailing into incoherence; he is dreadful to behold.

I did not see him until the end of the second dance. He was in the ante-room and presented a good example of protective colouring. He was standing with his back to a dark screen, and his pale face and light hair were indistinguishable against a background of flowers worked in gold thread. His attitude as he tightly grasped his programme behind him was that of a wounded dove at bay.

I signalled to him, but, although I was only a few feet away, he could not see me. He had apparently also lost all power of movement. I took him by the arm and led him to the buffet, and, although he never takes alcohol, I felt justified in forcing some brandy between his lips. This revived him a little, and he said in a well-modulated voice: "The surface of the floor is excellent. It is rather warm and oppressive (or cold and chilly). I adore dancing; it both exercises the body and refreshes the mind; but unfortunately I have not had many opportunities of indulging in the art."

I gave him some more brandy.

A little later he recognised me and smiled. I examined his programme and found that he was engaged for the next dance to a girl who could talk to anyone on any subject; I could see my wife's hand in the arrangement. I explained the situation, piloted him to his partner and stayed with them a while. She made several openings for him in the conversation, which he immediately sealed up with monosyllables, and when she allowed her fan to slip to the floor he stepped on it. She suggested that they should take the air on the balcony, and as I left them he pulled himself together and began to tell her, in a well-modulated voice, that the surface of the floor was excellent.

Later I saw him with the same partner still on the balcony. They were both pale and silent and had apparently never moved. They seemed to be exercising an unconscious fascination on one another. My courage failed me and I went elsewhere.

Some time after I happened to be at the buffet when Norman staggered in and ordered a large brandy-and-soda. There were beads of perspiration on his forehead and he was as white as death.

"What has happened?" I asked as soon as, I could attract his attention....