"You'd better try me," he rejoined adroitly.
"Very well," said Gwynneth. "Here?"
"Come on," said Sidney, his eyes sparkling, his brown skin a warmer hue; and in an instant they were threading their way between the cumbrous chairs and tiny tables of the big room, ploughing through its heavy pile, he in patent leather boots, she in her walking shoes, and not so much as a piano-organ in the street to set the time. Yet, even under these conditions, a turn was enough for Sidney, though he did not want to stop, and was very quick in asking whether he would do.
"You know you will," said Gwynneth, forgetting everything in the prospect of so excellent a partner.
"And you dance rippingly," declared her cousin; "by Jove, I wish we could have you at the First Trinity ball!"
So did Gwynneth; but, instead of betraying further eagerness, sat down at the piano, and, saying it was nothing without the music, forthwith treated Sidney to snatch after snatch of the waltzes of the hour, rendering each with a brilliance of touch and a delicacy of execution alike worthy of a better cause. A year ago Gwynneth would not have done this.
Sidney, his hands in his pockets, but a sparkle still in his eyes, stood watching her without a word until the end.
"Look here," he then announced, "you've simply got to come, and that's all about it. Of course the mater couldn't get away, but Lydia isn't so full up, and I should think she'd jump at it. I'll write to her and fix it up. There's a piano in our rooms, and we'll have it tuned for you; no, we'll get a grand in for the week; and the whole court will be full of men listening."
"Who are 'we'?" inquired Gwynneth.
"Oh, I share rooms with another fellow; an Eton man; you'll like him."