Edward E. Hunt, Tales from a Famished Land
“ Pah!”“Oh, la, la, la, la!”“Do not mind, monsieur,” the dancing-master whispered ecstatically, as if he feared such sentiments might offend me, “it is a poet, n’est-ce pas? Art—art—that is a world of itself.” He mopped his forehead, beaded with drops of perspiration, his little black eyes rolled in his head, and he drummed on the tablecloth as if his fingertips would do the office of his toes. The man was a genuine enthusiast. To dance and to teach others to dance—that was life!“Yvette, you have brought your ballet costume so you can dance for messieurs the Americans?” ”
