‘You are not forbidden?’ whispered the lady, in a lower tone.

‘No, Madame.’

‘You seem to have so many guardians,’ the lady went on,—­’and guardians are selfish, my dear; horribly selfish.  For that, I think all men are, whether guardians or not.’

‘Just now,’ said Wych Hazel, ’I am the selfish one,—­keeping Mr. May from dancing.’  Which supposed view of the case Mr. May, like a wise man, did not try to answer—­just then.

The German began.  One or two ordinary figures first, but watched by Wych Hazel with eager eyes.

‘Yes, of course!’ she said to herself, as Kitty Fisher went round with her head on her partner’s shoulder,—­’if he thought I did that.’ Could he think it?—­the little white glove tips so nearly withdrew themselves from the black coat-sleeve they were touching, that Mr. May turned to ask if she was tired and wished to sit down.

But motions that were pretty to look at followed:  each couple in turn passing through an avenue of little coloured flags, which held out by the motionless couples on either side, met and crossed over the heads of the dancers.  Down came Stuart Nightingale and Miss Fisher, and Mr. Burr and Phinny Powder, and Major Seaton and Miss May,—­Wych Hazel looked on, smiling, and with a stir of her little right foot.  How often she had come down just so!  Then began a figure that she did not know:  they were going to ‘practise,’ Kitty Fisher called out, recommending her to come.

‘You won’t know how next time.’

‘Thank you, I can learn by looking on.’

And so she stood still and watched.  Watched to see the ladies, armed with long reins and a whip, driving their partners cheerfully from point to point, with appropriate gestures and sounds and frolic.  The little bells tinkled gleefully, the many-coloured leading-strings mingled in a kaleidoscope pattern.

‘Symbolical,’ Mr. Kingsland remarked, standing near.  ’This is the “Bridle” figure, Miss Kennedy.’

‘Unbridled’ would be a better name, Miss Kennedy thought, but she said not a word; only her lips curled disdainfully.  But, ‘driving men is easy work,’ as Phinney Powder said, and so this ‘practice’ soon gave way to another still more striking.  The ladies ranged themselves, standing well apart from each other, and among the gentlemen was a general flutter of white handkerchiefs.  What were they going to do?  ‘Bonds’ was the word that occurred to Hazel this time, as she stood leaning a little forward in interested expectation.  And so it proved,—­ but not just as she had expected.  To be tied by the hand would be bad enough, but by the foot!—­and yet,—­yes, certainly Major Seaton’s handkerchief was round Kitty Fisher’s pretty ankle—­to the discomfiture of several other handkerchiefs of like intentions,—­and Miss Powder had Stuart Nightingale at her feet,—­and Phinny—­

But who did it for whom, Wych Hazel scarcely thought until afterwards.  She looked on for a minute at the scuffling, laughing, romping; then drew back with a deep flush.