“But what will they say to us for staying away?” said Lily, recovering herself.  “And I ought to be making the people dance, you know.  Come along, and do make yourself nice.  Do waltz with Mary Eames;—­pray, do.  If you don’t, I won’t speak to you all night!”

Acting under which threat, Crosbie did, on his return, solicit the honour of that young lady’s hand, thereby elating her into a seventh heaven of happiness.  What could the world afford better than a waltz with such a partner as Adolphus Crosbie?  And poor Mary Eames could waltz well; though she could not talk much as she danced, and would pant a good deal when she stopped.  She put too much of her energy into the motion, and was too anxious to do the mechanical part of the work in a manner that should be satisfactory to her partner.  “Oh! thank you;—­it’s very nice.  I shall be able to go on again directly.”  Her conversation with Crosbie did not get much beyond that, and yet she felt that she had never done better than on this occasion.

Though there were, at most, not above five couples of dancers, and though they who did not dance, such as the squire and Mr Boyce, and a curate from a neighbouring parish, had, in fact, nothing to amuse them, the affair was kept on very merrily for a considerable number of hours.  Exactly at twelve o’clock there was a little supper, which, no doubt, served to relieve Mrs Hearn’s ennui, and at which Mrs Boyce also seemed to enjoy herself.  As to the Mrs Boyces on such occasions, I profess that I feel no pity.  They are generally happy in their children’s happiness, or if not, they ought to be.  At any rate, they are simply performing a manifest duty, which duty, in their time, was performed on their behalf.  But on what account do the Mrs Hearns betake themselves to such gatherings?  Why did that ancient lady sit there hour after hour yawning, longing for her bed, looking every ten minutes at her watch, while her old bones were stiff and sore, and her old ears pained with the noise?  It could hardly have been simply for the sake of the supper.  After the supper, however, her maid took her across to her cottage, and Mrs Boyce also then stole away home, and the squire went off with some little parade, suggesting to the young men that they should make no noise in the house as they returned.  But the poor curate remained, talking a dull word every now and then to Mrs Dale, and looking on with tantalised eyes at the joys which the world had prepared for others than him.  I must say that I think that public opinion and the bishops together are too hard upon curates in this particular.