She did not look tired when she made this admission. But Mr Musgrave was not observant, and he considered it becoming in a woman to confess to fatigue. Also the substitution of companions was entirely agreeable to him. Peggy was undeniably the more charming of the two sisters.
“Don’t you dance?” she asked presently.
“These new dances are unfamiliar,” he replied. “I used to waltz years ago; but, save for an occasional square dance, I have not engaged in the exercise for so long that I expect I have forgotten the steps. I like to look on.”
He was not, however, indulging his liking; there was no view of the dancing from where they sat. The couples on the staircase had melted away with the first strains of the music, find Peggy and John Musgrave had the old hall to themselves.
“I don’t care about looking on,” said Peggy. “I like to take part, or get away from it altogether. It’s nice sitting here; it’s restful.”
She lifted the little decorated programme hanging from her fan and studied it, wrinkling her pretty brows over the undecipherable initials which defaced its page.
“I don’t believe you have asked me for a single dance,” she said, the faintest trace of reproach perceptible in her voice.
Before this attack Mr Musgrave experienced some embarrassment. The rebuke in its directness was tantamount to an accusation of negligence; in its suggestion of an invitation it implied a compliment. John Musgrave was as much discomfited by the one as by the other.
“I—I didn’t wish to trespass on your good nature to that extent,” he replied.
“Isn’t that just a little unkind?” hazarded Peggy, with a smile which brought the dimple into play.