"Won't she allow it?" he hazarded. "Madame Beattie?"
Andrea was really caught and quite evidently relieved, too, if Jeff understood so well. He smiled again. His eyes took on their wonted shining. Jeff, relying on Anne's and Lydia's delay, stayed not an instant, but ran out of the side door and along to the front where Madame Beattie, he knew, was making a stately progress, accepting greetings in a magnificent calm. He got to the door as she did, and she gave him the same royal recognition. She was dressed in black, her head draped with lace, and she really did look a distinguished personage. But Jeff was not to be put off with a mere greeting. He called her name.
"You may take me home," she said.
"I can't," said Jeff ruthlessly, when he had got her out of earshot. "I'm going to carry things for Anne."
"No, you're not." She put her hand through his arm and leaned heavily and luxuriously. "Good Lord, Jeff, why can't New Englanders dance like those shoemakers' daughters? What is it in this climate that dries up the blood?"
"Madame Beattie," said Jeff, "you've got to give away the game. You've got to tell me how you've hypnotised every man Jack of those people there to-night so they won't do a reasonable thing I ask 'em unless they've had your permission."
"What do you want to do?" But she was pleased. There was somebody under her foot.
"I want to rehearse some plays in English. And I gather from the leader of the clan—"
"Andrea?"
"Yes, Andrea. They won't do it unless you tell them to."