As Mrs. Barton said, it was of great importance to know if Olive knew the right step, and who could put her up to all the latest fashions as well as Milord?  The old gentleman replied in French, and settled his waistcoat, fearing the garment was doing him an injustice.

‘But who is to play?’ asked the poetical-looking Arthur, who, on the highest point of the sofa, hummed and tuned his guitar after true troubadour fashion.

‘Alice will play us a waltz,’ said Mrs. Barton winningly.

‘Oh yes, Alice dear, play us a waltz,’ cried Olive.

’You know how stupid I am; I can’t play a note without my music, and it is all locked up in my trunk upstairs.’

‘It won’t take you a minute to get it out,’ said Mrs. Barton; and moving, as if she were on wheels, towards her daughter, she whispered:  ‘Do as I tell you—­run upstairs at once and get your music.’

She looked questioningly at her mother and hesitated.  But Mrs. Barton had a way of compelling obedience, and the girl went upstairs, to return soon after with a roll of music.  At the best of times she had little love of the art, but now, sick with disappointment, and weary from a long railway journey, to spell through the rhythm of the My Queen Waltz and the jangle of L’Esprit Francais was to her an odious and, when the object of it was considered, an abominable duty to perform.  She had to keep her whole attention fixed on the page before her, but when she raised her eyes the picture she saw engraved itself on her mind.  It was a long time before she could forget Olive’s blond, cameo-like profile seen leaning over the old beau’s fat shoulder.  Mrs. Barton laughed and laughed again, declaring the while that it was la grace et la beaute reunies. Mr. Barton shouted and twanged in measure, the excitement gaining on him until he rushed at his wife, and, seizing her round the waist, whirled her and whirled her, holding his guitar above her head.  At last they bumped against Milord, and shot the old man and his burden on to the nearest sofa.  Then Alice, who thought her mission at the piano was over, rose to go, but Mrs. Barton ordered her to resume her seat, and the dancing was continued till the carriage came up the gravel sweep to fetch Milord away.  This was generally about half-past eleven, and as he muffled himself up in overcoats, the girls were told to cram his pockets with cigarettes and bon-bons.

‘Bedad, I think it is revolvers and policemen you ought to be givin’ me, not swatemates,’ he said, affecting a brogue.

‘Oh yes, is it not dreadful?’ exclaimed Mrs. Barton.  ’I don’t know what we shall do if the Government don’t put down the Land League; we shall all be shot in our beds some night.  Did you hear of that murder the other day?’

‘And it is said there will be no rents collected this year,’ said Mr. Barton, as he tightened one of the strings of his guitar.

‘Oh, do cease that noise!’ said Mrs. Barton.  ’And tell me, Lord Dungory, will the Government refuse us soldiers and police to put the people out?’