The waltz was, however, inspiring enough, or rather too much so, for Madame Isabey crying, “The music gets into my feet, it makes me waltz, I can’t help it,” sprang up, and catching Archie by the arm, cried out: “Oh, you dear little red-headed boy, come and waltz with me!” Archie, nothing loath, seized her about her capacious waist, and the two floated round the big drawing-room to their own delight and to the discomfiture of all present except Lyddon and the servants, whose black faces peering in at the door were expanded into smiles which showed all their ivories. Colonel and Mrs. Tremaine were aghast; Mrs. Tremaine had never really considered the waltz respectable. Neither age nor size could impair Madame Isabey’s grace, and Archie, enveloped in her flounces, his round, red head peering over her shoulder, found less difficulty in steering her than many a sylph-like girl. Lyddon, smiling grimly, leaned with folded arms against the mantelpiece. He forebore to take a chair, meaning to make his escape at the first moment. Suddenly Madame Isabey darted up to him and crying, “Here is an opportunity to teach you the divine waltz,” proceeded to drag him around the room, keeping time meanwhile with a refrain of “one, two, three, waltz around.” Angela turned round, and for the first time in a month burst out laughing. So did Colonel Tremaine, while a subdued guffaw from the window showed that Lyddon’s predicament had not been wholly lost on Tasso, Jim Henry, Mirandy, and their colleagues. Lyddon, when he recovered his senses, found he had waltzed half round the room with Madame Isabey, but then tore himself loose, and rushed away, considering whether or not he should be obliged to give up the comfortable berth at Harrowby, which he had held for twelve years, rather than live under the roof with this extraordinary old lady. Madame Isabey sat down panting. The laugh which went round relieved for a moment the tension which had prevailed at Harrowby ever since that fateful night of Neville’s departure. CHAPTER XI HOW THE DAYS WENT ON AT HARROWBY After a few days life at Harrowby settled down to a regular routine under its new conditions. A Virginian’s house is not his castle, but the castle of the stranger within his gates. Madame Isabey and Adrienne had breakfast in their rooms, and Adrienne did not appear until the day was well advanced, while Madame Isabey sometimes was not seen until late in the afternoon. Celeste, Madame Isabey’s maid, who was an African replica of her mistress, could not speak a word of English, and thought if she screamed loudly enough at Hector, in French, that she could make herself understood. Hector, falling into the same delusion, bellowed back at her in English, and the noise was only stopped by Angela being on hand every morning to explain Celeste’s wants to her colleagues. Adrienne’s maid was like her mistress, quiet, soft-spoken, and intelligent.