That he should dance at all was, you will agree, sufficiently unworthy but at least if he must make himself publicly foolish he might have done it with some one more suited to his years, some one of the age of the lady, for instance--singularly unlike one’s idea of a ghost--standing at the upper end of the room playing the violin that had half an hour previously been so incomprehensible to me. On seeing me enter he stopped dead, and his face resumed the familiar look of lowering gloom. The other couples followed his example, and the violin, after a brief hesitation, whined away into passivity. “Capital,” said I heartily to Menzies-Legh, who happened to have been in the act of dancing past the door I came in by. “Capital. Enjoy yourself, my friend. You are doing admirably well for what you told me is a weed. In a German ball-room you would, I assure you, create an immense sensation, for it is not the custom there for gentlemen over thirty--which,” I amended, bowing, “I may be entirely wrong in presuming that you are--for gentlemen over thirty----” But he interrupted me to remark with the intelligence that characterized him (after all, what ailed the man was, I believe, principally stupidity) that this was not a German ball-room. “Ah,” said I, “you are right there, my friend. That indeed is what you English call a different pair of shoes. If it were, do you know where the gentlemen over thirty would be?” He spoiled the neat answer I had all ready of “Not there” by, instead of seeking information, observing with his customary boorishness, “Confound the gentlemen over thirty,” and walking his long-stockinged partner away. “Otto,” whispered my wife, hurrying up, “you must come and be introduced to the people who are kindly letting us dance here.” “Not unless they are of decent birth,” I said firmly. “Whether they are or not you must come,” said she. “The lady who is playing is----” “I know, I know, she is a ghost,” said I, unable to forbear smiling at my own jest; and I think my hearers will agree that a man who can make fun of himself may certainly be said to be at least fairly equipped with a sense of humour. Edelgard stared. “She is the pastor’s wife,” she said. “It is her party. It is so kind of her to let us in. You must come and be introduced.” “She is a ghost,” I persisted, greatly diverted by the notion, for I felt a reaction of cheerfulness, and never was a lady more substantial than the one with the violin; “she is a ghost, and a highly unattractive specimen of the sect. Dear wife, only ghosts should be introduced to other ghosts. I am flesh and blood, and will therefore go instead and release the little Eckthum from the flesh and blood persistencies of Jellaby.” “But Otto, you must come,” said Edelgard, laying her hand on my arm as I prepared to move in the direction of the charming victim; “you can’t be rude. She is your hostess----”