[Running into the house.] I could play the minuet! [Seating herself at the spinnet, she plays a few bars of a minuet with delicate, old-fashioned precision, Richard, who has followed her, leaning over her. Presently, she stops, and wheels abruptly about.] But, oh, that isn’t enough! [Jumping up, she drags him after her to the garden.] Come, Richard! Back to the garden! I want to dance!
Richard.
[As they pass outdoors.] But the music, dearest Lydia! I can never do the steps without the music! Don’t you remember how you laughed at me that time last week?
[Without answering, Lydia places both herself and him in position for the minuet. Then, with low conviction.
Lydia.
There will be music, dear Richard! Don’t you remember—it used to go—— [Humming the minuet under her breath.] this way——? [And presently, as if encouraged by her voice, the garden becomes full of throbbing fiddles and horns, as, with stately courtesy, she and Richard dance in and out among the flower-beds. A few moments pass; then, at a sound within the cottage, they stop dancing, and as George Sanford, this time in dressing-gown and slippers, slowly descends the staircase, the music quivers away, though still heard now and again, as at greater distance. Lydia softly draws Richard aside.] Sh—this must be he!
Richard.
[In a slightly nervous whisper.] After all, Lydia, this is my house! Had I not better call him out and have done with it?
Lydia.
[Watching Sanford.] Sh——!