"I say, you chap," he cried. "What are we drinking to--eh? What the
devil's the dance of the hours?"
Valentine brought his glass down on the counter.
"What is it?" he exclaimed. "Why, the greatest dance in the world, the
dance that youth sends out the invitations for, and women live for, and
old men die with longing for. We set the hours dancing in the night,
we--all who are gay and careless, who love life in the greatest way, and
who laugh at death, and who aren't afraid of the devil. The devil's only
a bogey to frighten old women and children. What do the hours care for
him? Not a snap. It's only cowards who fear him. Brave men do what they
will, and when the hours dance they dance with them, and drink with them
all the night through. Who says there'll be another morning? I don't
believe it. Curse the sunshine. Give me the night and the dancing hours!"
The youth gave a yell, which was echoed by some of his rowdy companions,
and by the two little schoolboys who had joined the throng in a frenzy of
childish excitement, which they thought manly.
"The dancing hours! The dancing hours!" they cried, and one who was with
a girl suddenly caught her round the waist and broke into wild steps.
Others joined in.
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