“Nevertheless, you must dance it. Come along.” He reared up, and walked to her side. She put him through the steps, even dragging him round the waltz. It was very ridiculous. When it was finished she bowed him to his seat, and, wiping her hands on her handkerchief, because his shirt where her hand had rested on his shoulders was moist, she thanked him. “I hope you enjoyed it,” he said. “Ever so much,” she replied. “You made me look a fool—so no doubt you did.” “Do you think you could look a fool? Why you are ironical! Ca marche! In other words, you have come on. But it is a sweet dance.” He looked at her, lowered his eyelids, and said nothing. “Ah, well,” she laughed, “some are bred for the minuet, and some for——” “—Less tomfoolery,” he answered. “Ah—you call it tomfoolery because you cannot do it. Myself, I like it—so——” “And I can’t do it?” “Could you? Did you? You are not built that way.” “Sort of Clarence MacFadden,” he said, lighting a pipe as if the conversation did not interest him. “Yes—what ages since we sang that! ‘Clarence MacFadden he wanted to dance But his feet were not gaited that way . . .’ “I remember we sang it after one corn harvest—we had a fine time. I never thought of you before as Clarence. It is very funny. By the way—will you come to our party at Christmas?” “When? Who’s coming?” “The twenty-sixth.—Oh!—only the old people—Alice—Tom Smith—Fanny—those from Highclose.” “And what will you do?” “Sing charades—dance a little—anything you like.” “Polka?” “And minuets—and valetas. Come and dance a valeta, Cyril.” She made me take her through a valeta, a minuet, a mazurka, and she danced elegantly, but with a little of Carmen’s ostentation—her dash and devilry. When we had finished, the father said: “Very pretty—very pretty, indeed! They do look nice, don’t they, George? I wish I was young.” “As I am——” said George, laughing bitterly. “Show me how to do them—some time, Cyril,” said Emily, in her pleading way, which displeased Lettie so much. “Why don’t you ask me?” said the latter quickly. “Well—but you are not often here.” “I am here now. Come——” and she waved Emily imperiously to the attempt. Lettie, as I have said, is tall, approaching six feet; she is lissome, but firmly moulded, by nature graceful; in her poise and harmonious movement are revealed the subtle sympathies of her artist’s soul. The other is shorter, much heavier. In her every motion you can see the extravagance of her emotional nature. She quivers with feeling; emotion conquers and carries havoc through her, for she has not a strong intellect, nor a heart of light humour; her nature is brooding and defenceless; she knows herself powerless in the tumult of her feelings, and adds to her misfortunes a profound mistrust of herself.