"But a hoydenish thing like this—"
Throwing her train over her arm, Lady Marian executed a pas de seul that would have done credit to any ballet girl in the world. Her heels flew up and her toes flew out, her skirts whirled wildly about, and she was a perfect picture of grace and abandon.
To a man of Macfarren's nature, who had a tender respect for all women, this exhibition, however graceful, could not but be painful. But when the woman in the case was the one dearest to him in the whole world, the pain became agony. But far was it from Mrs. Van Tromp to be shocked at any performance of Lady Marian de Winstanley, bed-chamber woman to the queen.
"Is that the queen's favorite dance?" she cried. "Then, dear Lady Marian, may I ask you to teach me a few steps of it."
And the first thing Macfarren saw, Mrs. Van Tromp's train was over her arm and she was capering about as furiously as Lady Marian.
Now, although Macfarren was suffering the tortures of the damned, in addition to which he momentarily expected the angry interference of the proprietor, and to have the misery of seeing Lady Marian thrust disgracefully out of the hotel, the spectacle of Mrs. Van Tromp as an elderly Bacchante was too much for him. He lay back in his chair and laughed until he thought he should have died. A cow trying to walk a tight rope would have been graceful compared to Mrs. Van Tromp's elephantine attempts—but when with a final hop, skip and a jump, she asked him what he thought of it, he lied desperately.
"Beautiful—beautiful!" he cried, "you'll make a sensation, sure—and Van Tromp will get a divorce," he added mentally.
Mrs. Van Tromp and Lady Marian, each exhausted by the exercise, sat down panting—and Macfarren drew a long breath of relief when the show was over.
Mrs. Van Tromp, after fanning herself for a moment turned to Lady Marian and asked:
"Were you ill coming over in the steamer?"