I do not wish, however, to leave you longer under the impression that the deserted farmhouse was haunted. It may have been of course, but it was not on that night of last August. What was happening was that a party from the parsonage—a holiday party of young and rather inclined to be noisy people, which had overflowed the bounds of the accommodation there—was utilizing the long, empty front room as an impromptu (I believe that is the expression) ball-room. The farm belonged to the pastor—observe the fatness of these British ecclesiastics—and it was the practice of his family during the holidays to come down sometimes in the evening and dance in it. All this I found out after Edelgard had dressed and gone across to see for herself what the lights and stamping meant. She insisted on doing so in spite of my warnings, and came back after a long interval to tell me the above, her face flushed and her eyes bright, for she had seized the opportunity, regardless of what I might be feeling waiting alone, to dance too.
“You danced too?” I exclaimed.
“Do come, Otto. It is such fun,” said she.
“With whom did you dance, may I inquire?” I asked, for the thought of the Baroness von Ottringel dancing with the first comer in a foreign farm was of course most disagreeable to me.
“Mr. Jellaby,” said she. “Do come.”
“Jellaby? What is he doing there?”
“Dancing. And so is everybody. They are all there. That’s why their caravans were so quiet. Do come.”
And she ran out again, a childishly eager expression on her face, into the night.
“Edelgard!” I called.
But though she must have heard me she did not come back.