Hangmans Holiday by Dorothy L. Sayers

snapped Lady Hermione. “Nowadays it merely means drunk and disorderly. And she’s not such a kid, either, young man. In three years’ time she’ll be a hag, if she goes on at this rate.”
    “Dear Lady Hermione,” said Wimsey, “we can’t all be untouched by time, like you.”
    “You could,” retorted the old lady, “if you looked after your stomachs and your morals. Here comes Frank Bellingham—looking for a drink, no doubt. Young people to-day seem to be positively pickled in gin.”
    The fox-trot had come to an end, and the Red King was threading his way towards them through a group of applauding couples.
    “Hullo, Bellingham!” said Wimsey. “Your crown’s crooked. Allow me.” He set wig and head-dress to rights with skilful fingers. “Not that I blame you. What crown is safe in these Bolshevik days?”
    “Thanks,” said Bellingham. “I say, I want a drink.”
    “What did I tell you?” said Lady Hermione.
    “Buzz along, then, old man,” said Wimsey. “You’ve got four minutes. Mind you turn up in time for Sir Roger.”
    “Right you are. Oh, I’m dancing it with Gerda, by the way. If you see her, you might tell her where I’ve gone to.”
    “We will. Lady Hermione, you’re honouring me, of course?”
    “Nonsense! You’re not expecting me to dance at my age? The Old Maid ought to be a wallflower.”
    “Nothing of the sort. If only I’d had the luck to be born earlier, you and I should have appeared side by side, as Matrimony. Of course you’re going to dance it with me—unless you mean to throw me over for one of these youngsters.”
    “I’ve no use for youngsters,” said Lady Hermione. “No guts. Spindle-shanks.” She darted a swift glance at Wimsey’s scarlet hose. “You at least have some suggestion of calves. I can stand up with you without blushing for you.”
    Wimsey bowed his scarlet cap and curled wig in deep reverence over the gnarled knuckles extended to him.
    “You make me the happiest of men. We’ll show them all how to do it. Right hand, left hand, both hands across, back to back, round you go and up the middle. There’s Deverill going down to tell the band to begin. Punctual old bird, isn’t he? Just two minutes to go. … What’s the matter, Miss Carstairs? Lost your partner?”
    “Yes—have you seen Tony Lee anywhere?”
    “The White King? Not a sign. Nor the White Queen either. I expect they’re together somewhere.”
    “Probably. Poor old Jimmie Playfair is sitting patiently in the north corridor, looking like Casabianca.”
    “You’d better go along and console him,” said Wimsey, laughing.
    Joan Carstairs made a face and disappeared in the direction of the buffet, just as Sir Charles Deverill, giver of the party, bustled up to Wimsey and his companions, resplendent in a Chinese costume patterned with red and green dragons, bamboos, circles and characters, and carrying on his shoulder a stuffed bird with an enormous tail.
    “Now, now,” he exclaimed, “come along, come along, come along! All ready for Sir Roger. Got your partner, Wimsey? Ah, yes, Lady Hermione—splendid. You must come and stand next to your dear mother and me, Wimsey. Don’t be late, don’t be late. We want to dance it right through. The waits will begin at two o’clock—I hope they will arrive in good time. Dear me, dear me! Why aren’t the servants in yet? I told Watson—I must go and speak to him.”
    He darted away, and Wimsey, laughing, led his partner up to the top of the room, where his mother, the Dowager Duchess of Denver, stood waiting, magnificent as the Queen of Spades.
    “Ah! here you are,” said the Duchess placidly. “Dear Sir Charles—he was getting quite flustered. Such a man for punctuality—he ought to have been a Royalty. A delightful party, Hermione, isn’t it? Sir Roger and the waits—quite mediæval—and a Yule-log in the hall, with the steam-radiators and everything—so oppressive!”
    “Tumty, tumty, tiddledy, tumty, tumty, tiddledy,”