“Well, sir, I hope you have decided to settle down here for good,” said Mr. Webster, heartily.
“I—I haven’t exactly decided. But I shall probably be here for some time.”
“You have a fine old place there. You don’t happen to be thinking of getting rid of any of that land of yours?”
“It all depends,” replied Mr. Sheridan vaguely.
“Bless me!” exclaimed Mr. Webster suddenly bethinking himself of his duties. “I’m nearly forgetting that you’re not an old fellow like myself.”
And the hospitable old soul took his guest by the arm and dragged him off to be presented to the young ladies.
First, Mr. Sheridan danced a lively two-step with the plump but agile Dolly. He enjoyed it, and he enjoyed talking to Dolly, and he enjoyed the music.
Then Dolly, with a wicked twinkle in her eye, said,
“I want to introduce you to one of my dearest friends.” A hopeful, eager expression came into Mr. Sheridan’s face, until Dolly, greatly enjoying his disappointment (which he hastily concealed under a pleasant smile) betrayed him into the hands of a pallid young lady, wearing a wilted-looking Grecian robe, and a wreath of laurel leaves in her long, scanty, mouse-coloured hair. It was Amelia, the poetess.
These proceedings aroused great interest in a quarter to which none of the guests had given a thought: namely, in the hayloft, or musicians’ gallery. Here since the early part of the evening, Paul had ensconced himself, his long legs dangling over the edge, his chin between his hands, brooding above the jolly turmoil of the dance floor like a large, thoughtful crow; and here several of the younger folk had joined him, disdaining the flighty amusements of their elders, and greatly preferring to spend their time in the more solid enjoyment of devouring nuts and raisins and oranges.
Jane was the latest addition to this noble company. Having ascended the wooden ladder, she slid along the edge of the loft to Paul’s side.
“Hullo,” responded Paul, “been having a good time?”
“It’s nice up here. It’s near the music. You know, I’d like to learn how to play the bassoon,” said Jane.
“Then you probably will. How would the trombone suit you? That seems more your style.”
Jane turned up her nose at him, and then without replying focussed her attention on the dancers below.