A little exertion on such a night made us very hot. After the third dance the two old squatters, the horse-buyer, the clergyman, and Mr Benson disappeared. Judging from the hilarity of their demeanour and the killing odour of their breaths when they returned an hour or so later, during their absence they must have conscientiously sampled the contents of every whisky decanter on the dining-room sideboard.
I could not dance, but had no lack of partners, as, ladies being in the minority, the gentlemen had to occasionally put up with their own sex in a dance.
“Let’s take a breeze now and have a song or two, but no more dancing for a while,” said some of them; but Harold Beecham said, “One more turn, and then we will have a long spell and a change of programme.”
He ordered Joe Archer to play a waltz, and the floor soon held several whirling couples. Harold “requested the pleasure” of me—the first time that night. I demurred. He would not take a refusal.
“Believe me, if I felt competent, Mr Beecham, I would not refuse. I cannot dance. It will be no pleasure to you.”
“Allow me to be the best judge of what is a pleasure to me,” he said, quietly placing me in position.
He swung me once round the room, and then through an open window into the garden.
“I am sorry that I haven’t had more time to look after you today. Come round into my room. I want to strike a bargain with you,” were his words.
I followed him in the direction of a detached building in the garden. This was Harold’s particular domain. It contained three rooms—one a library and office, another an arsenal and deed-room, and the third, into which he led me, was a sort of sitting-room, containing a piano, facilities for washing, a table, easy-chairs, and other things. As we entered I noticed the lamp, burning brightly on the table, gleamed on the face of a clock on the wall, which pointed to half past ten.
We stood beside the table, some distance apart, and, facing me, he said: