Bridget set her teeth, and rose in silence.
Supper was spread in the breakfast-room next to the kitchen. The somewhat dark narrow staircase which led to it afforded an opportunity for a good deal of whispering and giggling before the last step was reached. Bridget had dropped the young man’s arm almost immediately, on pretence of gathering up her dress, and her left hand hung at her side. Mr. Spiller’s hand crept towards it. They had just reached the bottom step. Bridget turned her head, and gave him a lightning-swift glance, and his hand dropped instantly as though it had been stung. He flushed, and stumbled in the narrow passage before the door was reached.
They were the last couple, and as they entered the room Bridget saw with relief that there was only room for the ladies at the table. The men stood behind their partners’ chairs, unscrewing bottles of ale and stout, or handing plates of chicken. One or two of them paused a moment with a vague sense of admiration as the girl walked up the room, head erect, to where Carrie was energetically patting a chair next to her own.
“Come here, dear. I’ve kept a place for you. Mr. Spiller, give Miss Ruan some bottled ale, and look after her, you naughty man!”
“By Jove! she’s a stunner,” whispered Wilby junior to young Jenkins. “What eyes she’s got, eh? and hair! I’m a bit spoony, Jim. Let’s try and cut Spiller out.”
“Done,” returned Jenkins, with emphasis. “I’ll have first go. Give me that plate of tongue.”
“Let me give you some tongue, Miss Ruan,” he implored, elbowing Spiller aside, as he stood sulkily in the background.
“Look here,” he whispered, as he put the plate down in front of her. “Spiller’s had too long innings by a good bit. Give some other feller a chance, won’t you, Miss Ruan? We’re goin’ to have dancin’ after supper. May I have the first valse? Come now.”
“Thank you. I don’t dance,” murmured Bridget, untruthfully.
“Oh, come now, that’s playin’ it too low down upon a chap,” Jenkins returned, ruefully retreating.