“Where's Cæsar, dough?” he snuffled.
“At Peel, buying the stock,” snapped Nancy.
“Dank de Lord! I mean—where's Grannie?”
“Nursing Mistress Quiggin.”
Niplightly eased the strap of his beaver, liberated his lips, took a deep draught of ale, and then turned to Pete, with apologetic smiles, and suggested a change in the music.
At that Katherine leapt up as light as laughter. “A dance,” she cried, “a dance!”
“Good sakes alive?” said Nancy Joe. “Listen to the girl? Is it the moon, Kitty, or what is it that's doing on you?”
“Shut your eyes, Nancy,” said Katherine, “just for once, now won't you?”
“You can do what you like with me, with your coaxing and woaxing,” said Nancy. “Enjoy yourself to the full, girl, but don't make a noise above the singing of the kettle.”
Pete tuned his strings, and Katherine pinned up the tail of her skirt, and threw herself into position.