Aunt Helen got one scat of honour near the head of the table and Miss Derrick another.  I drifted to the foot among the unimportant younger fry, where we had no end of fun and idle chatter.  We had to wait on ourselves, and as all formality was dispensed with, it was something like a picnic.

The heat was excessive.  Every window and door were open, and the balmy, almost imperceptible, zephyrs which faintly rustled the curtains and kissed our perspiration-beaded brows were rich with many scents from the wide old flower-garden, which, despite the drought, brought forth a wealth of blossom.

When done eating we had to wash the dishes.  Such a scamper ensued back and forwards to the kitchen, which rang with noise, and merriment.  Everyone was helping, hindering, laughing, joking, teasing, and brimming over with fun and enjoyment.  When we had completed this task, dancing was proposed.  Some of the elderly and more sensible people said it was too hot, but all the young folks did not care a rap for the temperature.  Harold had no objections, Miss Derrick was agreeable, Miss Benson announced herself ready and willing, and Joe Archer said he was “leppin’” to begin, so we adjourned to the dancing-room and commenced operations.

I played the piano for the first quadrille, and aunt Helen for the second dance.  It was most enjoyable.  There was a table at one end of the room on which was any amount of cherries, lollies, cake, dainties, beers, syrups, and glasses, where all could regale themselves without ceremony or bother every time the inclination seized them.  Several doors and windows of the long room opened into the garden, and, provided one had no fear of snakes, it was delightful to walk amid the flowers and cool oneself between dances.

A little exertion on such a night made us very hot.  After the third dance the two old squatters, the horse-buyer, the clergyman, and Mr Benson disappeared.  Judging from the hilarity of their demeanour and the killing odour of their breaths when they returned an hour or so later, during their absence they must have conscientiously sampled the contents of every whisky decanter on the dining-room sideboard.

I could not dance, but had no lack of partners, as, ladies being in the minority, the gentlemen had to occasionally put up with their own sex in a dance.

“Let’s take a breeze now and have a song or two, but no more dancing for a while,” said some of them; but Harold Beecham said, “One more turn, and then we will have a long spell and a change of programme.”

He ordered Joe Archer to play a waltz, and the floor soon held several whirling couples.  Harold “requested the pleasure” of me—­the first time that night.  I demurred.  He would not take a refusal.

“Believe me, if I felt competent, Mr Beecham, I would not refuse.  I cannot dance.  It will be no pleasure to you.”

“Allow me to be the best judge of what is a pleasure to me,” he said, quietly placing me in position.