"Let us suppose it was," said the Count. "And why should we not have a dance now on the Heath? Mr. Melton, will you give us some music?"
"With pleasure," said the manager, opening the gate, and allowing his merry companions to pass into the meadow.
They went along until they were within a short distance of a clump of trees; and then, the Count having been ingeniously compelled to take Mrs. Christmas as his partner, Miss Brunel being Anerley's vis-à-vis, the manager proceeded to sing a set of quadrilles in rather an unmelodious manner, varying la, la, la, with tow, row, row. The great, pompous Count puffed, and blew, and guffawed; the little Mrs. Christmas danced with a prim and grave precision; while all did their best to help out the figures, and stumbled, and set each other right again, and laughed right heartily over the mad performance.
Then there was a sudden shriek, clear and sharp, that rang through the darkness; the dancing suddenly ceased; and Anerley sprang forward just in time to prevent Miss Brunel from sinking to the ground, her face pale as death.
"Did you not see it?" she gasped, still trembling. "Something white flashed past through the trees there—in a moment—and it seemed to have no shape."
"By Jove, I saw it too!" said Melton, who had abruptly ceased his singing; "and for the life of me I can't imagine what it was."
"A white cow," suggested Anerley.
"I tell you it flew past like a streak of lightning," said Melton.
"More likely a white doe belonging to the park over there," said the Count, who was inwardly the most terrified person present.
"Let us get away from here," said Miss Brunel, who had recovered her self-composure, but was very grave. "Whatever it was, the grass is too wet for us to remain."