“Ha, ha, Miss Ruth! Come North just in time to make a conquest of the fine Frenchman at Oakby.”
“I thought he was a Spaniard, uncle,” said Ruth.
“Eh, pretty much of a muchness, aren’t they? I’ve got a card for a grand ball to go and see him. Ha, ha! I’d sooner see him with a red coat on at Ashrigg meet next Thursday.”
“But you must go to the ball, uncle, and dance with me,” said Ruth.
“That’s a bargain,” said the jolly parson, striking his hands together. “Any dance I like?”
“To be sure.”
“Ah, mind you look out, then. When you’re sitting quiet with the Frenchman you’ll see your old uncle round the corner.”
“I never dance with any one who doesn’t know the trois temps, uncle.”
“Bless my soul! My favourite dance is the hornpipe, or old Sir Roger—kiss the girls as you pop under. That’s an old parson’s privilege, you know.”
All this time Virginia had been standing apart, working up her courage, and now, regardless of the unities of conversation, and with a now-or-never feeling, she began, her fresh young voice trembling and her colour rising high.