“Now then, Mr. Kirke,” he said, “I hear you and my daughter are reviving the old country dances for the ball on the lawn next week after the bazaar. Excellent! Excellent! Rubbish trying to waltz on a lawn. And I shouldn’t wonder if your great-grandfather and mine stood up at a dance on the green together a hundred years ago. They were both neighbours here, anyway. Really an excellent idea!”
It truly did seem a grand idea to him now that he had adopted it, for that was his way. Everything was splendid when it all belonged to him—even an idea.
“Everybody must join in—everybody,” he said. “Now, Mrs. Werrit, now Miss Kirke—no skulking in corners. Mr. Thorpe, you stand up with my daughter Elizabeth. My dear,” to his wife, “you take Mr. Deane.”
“I never dance,” said Andy with dignified decision.
“Nonsense! Nonsense! My wife hasn’t danced for years—Mr. Thorpe hasn’t either—they both came as spectators.”
“And I shall not begin again now, my dear,” laughed Mrs. Atterton.
“Mamma’s back!” said Elizabeth. “How can you, father!”
Then the unexpected happened, as it always does—Mrs. Atterton glanced at Andy, and the spirit of mischief within her, which years and fat had sent to sleep, flickered up for a moment.
“Very well,” she chuckled; “if Mr. Deane will dance, I will!”
“Now!” said Mr. Atterton.