“She is handsome, she is pretty, she is the belle of Belfast city, she is a-courting one-two-three, pray won’t ye tell me who is she?” To Handy’s surprise, he found himself actually enjoying the song as he slowly made his way across the ballroom floor. He hadn’t noticed it until now, but none of the others had actually ran across the floor as quick as they could when they had every motivation to cross with every ounce of speed they could muster. To his not inconsiderable alarm, he found himself not particularly wanting to run across himself either. Despite having every impetus to do otherwise, he took his time. The same feeling that urged him to continue the song was also urging him to slow his pace, and all the while he felt the warm glow, the creeping enjoyment of the song and every sensible voice in his head telling him to break out into a sprint. The ritual, however, wouldn't let him.