Can smell a rose,
But hers has more to do, sir!
It scornful tips
Above her lips,
At follies she finds in you, sir!”
“Bravo, Antoine!” cried Elsie, jumping up and bringing his violin. “Now play it.”
And as the violin dashed into the abandon of the melody, she grasped Gilbert by the shoulders and the two went whirling off into a jig.
“That’s inspiring,” cried Herbert, catching up Lizzette and dashing after them. The dishes rattled, the pictures shook, the stove trembled, the floors creaked, but on they danced, madder and merrier as the violin actually shrieked in glee, until Margaret cried aghast:
“Ho! ‘Tom the Piper’s Son!’ Stop! Stop! I beg. It is a veritable witches’ dance.”
“Come on, my solemn sister,” and Elsie caught Margaret around the waist and dragged her into the merry scramble.