The gallery in question was a sort of balcony, projecting from the wall at one end of the hall, midway between floor and ceiling, and to which access was had by a steep little spiral stairway. This gallery was intended for the musicians only; but between its gilded, bulging front and the part of the platform on which they sat was a space where half a dozen children might be comfortably accommodated. More than once, when some reception or dance was in progress, Hazel, with a few chosen friends in her train, had begged her way into this most desirable retreat, and that was why Peter knew “what was up” the moment he saw her.
When they entered the little gallery, they found John Thomas there before them, complacently installed in the most desirable place; but they were far too thankful to have gotten in at all to grudge him his privileged position.
It was a funny sight to see the little company established in a row behind the heavy gilded stucco work, which completely concealed them, yet offered such convenient little loop-holes and crannies, from which everything going on on the floor below could be plainly viewed. To be sure, the arrangement of the platform obliged them all to sit tailor fashion—rather a constrained position for those unaccustomed to it—but what did it matter about one's legs and back when one's eyes were to be feasted with lovely ladies and gallant gentlemen and the music they were to dance to would be ringing in one's ears.
“Doesn't the hall look lovely?” said Hazel, when at last she had adjusted her lower extremities as comfortably as circumstances would admit.
“Lovely!” answered the Marberrys, each with a sigh of deep appreciation, for it had not been an easy thing for them to gain permission to accompany Hazel, and this was to be their first introduction to the glories of a dancing assembly.
“How everything shines!” said Flutters, quite lost in admiration of the glittering brass sconces, with their bevelled mirrors and beautiful red candles, and wondering greatly how any floor could ever be brought to such a high state of polish.
“'Course it shines,” said John Thomas. “It ought to shine. My father hasn't been reachin' and rubbin', and kneelin' and polishin' fur free weeks fur nuffin, I reckon.”
“Did you help him?” asked Flutters, with admiration.
