The improvised valse soon ends, and I look across at the Brat.  Gallant boy! the beads of perspiration stand on his young brow, but there is no look of blenching!  When the time comes he will be ready to do it again.

As I stand in silent amusement watching him, having, for the moment, no dancing duties of my own, I hear a voice at my elbow, Bobby’s, who, having come in later than the rest of us, has not been taking part in the dance,

“Nancy!  Nancy!” in a tone of hurried excitement, “for the love of Heaven look at father!  If you stand on tiptoe you will be able to see him; he has been gallopading! When I saw his venerable coat-tails flying, a feather would have knocked me down!  You really ought to see it” (lowering his voice confidentially), “it might give you an idea about your own old man, and the old Wam—­”

“Hang the old Wampoo!” cry I, with inelegant force, laughing.

The duty part of the evening is over now.  We have all signalized ourselves by feats of valor.  I have scampered through an unsociable country-dance with the head coachman, and have had my smart gown of faint pink and pearl color nearly torn off my back by the ponderous-footed pair that trip directly after me.  We have, in fact, done our duty, and may retire as soon as we like.  But the music has got into our feet, and we promise ourselves one valse among ourselves before we depart.

The Brat is the only exception.  He still cleaves to his cook; dancing with her is a tour de force, on which he piques himself.  Mrs. Huntley and Algy are already flying down the room in an active, tender embrace.  I have been asked as long ago as before dinner by Mr. Musgrave.  I was rather surprised and annoyed at his inviting me instead of Barbara; but as, with this exception, his conduct has been unequivocally demonstrative, I console myself with the notion that he looks upon me as the necessary pill to which Barbara will be the subsequent jam.

The first bars of the valse are playing when Bobby comes bustling up.  Healthy jollity and open mirth are written all over his dear, fat face.

“Come along, Nancy! let us have one more scamper before we die!”

“I am engaged to Mr. Musgrave,” reply I, with a graceless and discontented curl of lip, and raising of nose.

“All right!” says Bobby, philosophically, walking away; “I am sure I do not mind, only I had a fancy for having one more spin with you.”

“So you shall!” cry I, impulsively, with a sharp thought of Hong-Kong, running after him, and putting his solid right arm round my waist.

Away we go in mad haste.  Like most sailors, Bobby dances well.  I am nothing very wonderful, but I suit him. In many musicless waltzings of winter evenings, down the lobby at home, we have learned to fit each other’s step exactly.  At our first pausing to recover breath, I become sensible of a face behind me, of a fierce voice in my ear.