“Oh, it’s easy enough,” said the host. “I’ll call off the figures.”
Ben gave Tom a nudge, and pointed out two men who stood at a little distance with a big camera. “Sir Peter’s up to date,” he whispered. “I guess it’s the first time anyone ever took moving-pictures on Cotterell’s Island.”
Meantime Miss Boothby had gone up to David and boldly proclaimed that he was to dance with her. The suit that David had put on in the attic happened to be green, and when she reminded him that that was the color she had asked him to wear he turned beet red and stammered something about “trying to please a lady.”
“My wardrobe is still upstairs. Make what use of it you please.”
“We will stand near Mr. Cotterell, and I will show you all the steps,” she said. “I could tell you were very light on your feet the very first time I saw you.”
“Well, I can pick them up pretty well in a clog or a shuffle,” admitted David.
“I knew it! I knew it!” exclaimed the delighted Miss Boothby; and pouncing on David’s hand she led him to where Peter Cotterell was assigning places to the dancers.
Tom and Ben and Tuckerman all had partners. The violin began to play, and Cotterell led off the dance. The host was very graceful and so was the lady he danced with, and they posed and bowed and courtsied constantly as they went through the stately measures of the minuet. The others copied their leaders, and after a few minutes’ practice contrived to do it well. Meantime the camera clicked, taking reels of pictures of the old-fashioned dance.
There was a final bow and courtesy, a final posing in position. Then Cotterell raised his hand. “That was beautifully done, my friends,” he said. “Surely my island home has never witnessed a more graceful scene. I trust you have all gained an excellent appetite for dinner.”