"These new dances are unfamiliar," he replied. "I used to waltz years ago; but, save for an occasional square dance, I have not engaged in the exercise for so long that I expect I have forgotten the steps. I like to look on." He was not, however, indulging his liking; there was no view of the dancing from where they sat. The couples on the staircase had melted away with the first strains of the music, find Peggy and John Musgrave had the old hall to themselves. "I don't care about looking on," said Peggy. "I like to take part, or get away from it altogether. It's nice sitting here; it's restful." She lifted the little decorated programme hanging from her fan and studied it, wrinkling her pretty brows over the undecipherable initials which defaced its page. "I don't believe you have asked me for a single dance," she said, the faintest trace of reproach perceptible in her voice. Before this attack Mr Musgrave experienced some embarrassment. The rebuke in its directness was tantamount to an accusation of negligence; in its suggestion of an invitation it implied a compliment. John Musgrave was as much discomfited by the one as by the other. "I--I didn't wish to trespass on your good nature to that extent," he replied. "Isn't that just a little unkind?" hazarded Peggy, with a smile which brought the dimple into play. Mr Musgrave fell to studying the dimple while Peggy studied her card, and became so intent in this pleasing form of research that he omitted to answer her question. Presently he took the card from her. "Is it filled?" he inquired. "There's one blank--a square, towards the end," replied Peggy demurely, not thinking it necessary to tell him with what difficulty she had preserved that blank space in her programme. "I can't dance," he said, reddening. "I've forgotten how. It wouldn't be fair to spoil your enjoyment. So many people would be grateful for the privilege of dancing it with you." Peggy shook her head. "I do not feel like gratifying them," she said. Very gravely and deliberately Mr Musgrave took hold of the tiny pencil hanging by its slender cord from the card, and, pencil in one large gloved hand and programme in the other, looked searchingly into the grey eyes that met his steadfast scrutiny with a kindly smile. "Does that," he asked, "convey a gracious permission to me to write my name against the blank?" "Not--unless to do so would be equally agreeable to you," Peggy answered. Mr Musgrave did not immediately remove his gaze from hers. So long, indeed, did he continue looking at her that Peggy felt her cheeks grow warm beneath his earnest eyes. Then he transferred his attention from her face to the card he held, and wrote his name clearly, "John Musgrave," in the single blank space thereon. "Thank you," he said, and returned her programme to her with a courteous bow.