They danced to a rousing fox-trot—as well as they could. There was little room, and steering was nothing accounted of on Saturday nights. Couples went as they pleased. Many seemed rapt—unaware that they were not alone: others heaved and revolved, careless of collision and greeting every bump with incorrigible cheer: some frolicked openly, to the unveiled disgust of the more intense, who sneered upon them as they passed. By such as were not dancing Ann’s presence upon the floor was instantly remarked. As she went by, she saw heads nodding, arms being caught, fingers pointing, ribs being nudged. The infection spread to the floor. Couples began to stare—to draw apart. Very soon she and Mr. Alcock were dancing in a little space of their own. As if by magic, this revolved with them. Had he pleased, Mr. Alcock could have left the space standing. That he did not so please was natural enough. The youth was intoxicated. His thirsty vanity, ordinarily but scurvily found, was in its cups. His superciliary muscle was strained to breaking-point: his eyes were almost closed: his sneer, the droop of his parted lips beggared description. It was his hour. The dance ended with a crash, and the two returned to their party. As Ann was desperately raking its environs for Bob— “Well, Lady Ann,” said Aunt Harriet, “what d’you think of our floor?” She laid her hand familiarly upon the girl’s arm. “Not so bad for ole Suet?” “I—I think it’s very good,” said Ann, observing with horror that the space, which had momentarily disappeared, was beginning to surround her again. Aunt Harriet saw it, too, and raised her voice. “You know, Lady Ann, I’m so glad to ’ave you at last. I’ve got so much I want you to ’elp me with. You know, livin’ all the year round in the country, one’s ideas seem to get into a groove. In course, Taown’s the ’ub. There one’s in touch with things. ’Otels and emporiums is up to date. People ’as _got_ to move. One’s only to take a walk down the street or pop into a laounge. . . . But ’ere—nothin’. An’ after a bit, Lady Ann, stegnation sets in. I tell you,” she added, with a mischievous laugh, “I’m not goin’ to give you no rest. You’ll be wore out before I’m through.” “I’m—I’m sure I shan’t,” faltered Ann, trying to smile and wildly conscious of an unnatural hush. “Indeed, I——” Mercifully, the band recommenced its labours. “Shell we take another turn?” said Mr. Alcock. Ann lifted up her head. “To tell you the truth,” she said, “I’m a little tired.” She looked round anxiously. “I wonder where Bob is.” “Gone to ’ave a drink,” said Ada. “Let’s go an’ fin’ them,” said Aunt Harriet. They passed out after the manner of Royalty, a lane being made. Mr. Alcock was dispatched in quest of the revellers, while Mr. Barnham, now sole warden of virtue, took up a central position and stared about him with an air of apologetic defiance. After a suspiciously long absence, his colleague returned to say that the other squires were not to be found.