And now the loud summons of a gong called everybody to the more serious business of the evening. A big marquee of striped canvas had been erected; the guests trooped into it. Soon all the little tables were filled, and everybody did full justice to the delicacies set before them. After standing in the sun a considerable time, the crowd was not sorry to eat and drink its fill. The eyes of bashful bucolic youth began to sparkle with the effects of Mr. Sleek's champagne; rosy cheeks grew rosier; even the vicar's wife unbent; that blighted maiden, Stacey Dodd, almost felt her hopes revive under the influence of _pâté de foie gras_, and the immediate proximity of the squire. But, even in the country, people can't eat and drink for ever; and the marquee was at last deserted for the superior attractions of the dance.
For that evening, at least, class distinctions were for once forgotten in King's Warren. Young Mr. Wurzel screwed his courage up so far as to ask Miss Warrender to dance with him, while the vicar took out the village schoolmistress, and Mrs. Dodd herself condescended to waltz with her host. But after her toes had been trodden on three times in a couple of rounds, she felt that she had already done more than enough; she danced no more, and relapsed into her old position of tutelary goddess, or guardian angel, to society in general. Connie and her sister were in great demand, and the cup of their happiness was filled to overflowing, each having danced with the real live lord. Young Wurzel having done enough for honour, did as engaged young men should, and stood up for dance after dance, as a matter of course, with the object of his affections.
"I can't dance as _she_ does," whispered the Village Rose in his ear; "but hold me tight and turn me round quickly, William," she added with a sigh of satisfaction.
The young farmer did as he was bid, and owing to their united exertions, they were soon both the colour of a couple of peonies.
The big conservatory had been judiciously only dimly lighted by a few Chinese lanterns, and by common consent had been given up to the lazy philanderers, who sought its leafy shades between the dances. Connie Sleek had volunteered to show the plants to Lord Spunyarn; they were both tired, and Connie in considerable trepidation managed to sit down in one of the dimly-lighted nooks, at his good-natured lordship's suggestion. Spunyarn, however, didn't make love to Connie, but the young lady felt that she had her chance, and she availed herself of it.