"Come." Preston was leading her out, to Jane's utter surprise. Marian had been so dignified for the last twenty-four hours; ten years older, it seemed, than last winter. And how girlish then!
"Marian!"
Preston laughed. "Now, Cousin Marian. The whole seven, for the honor of the house of Floyd."
There were two graceful, successful leaps. Her hand trembled, half a yard of skirt dropped, and out went the third candle. There was a general cry of disappointment.
"That was an accident," declared Preston. "Light the candle. Marian, you shall have another chance."
"No, no, no!" She caught Jane's arm. "It was very silly," but her voice had a strained, broken sound, and she looked frightened.
"Take your turn, Cousin Preston, then let them go to dancing. The fiddlers are tuning up."
Jane drew her sister a little aside, while Preston Floyd won the acclaim of the crowd.
"Are you happy and satisfied, Marian, or miserable?" she asked in a rapid tone, just under her breath. "You are so queer and changed."
"Don't," Marian entreated. "Of course I shall marry Mr. Greaves. That was girlish foolishness, you know. And the candles really didn't mean anything. Jaqueline," as the girl had come up to her, "we were both in the same boat for awkwardness. I think I must be growing old, but you did not have so good an excuse. Do you want to stay for the dancing? Had we not better all return to the drawing room?"