Margaret Maliphant

								

slow lilt of magic music. I was very fond of dancing. I suppose Captain
Forrester guessed it, for he never paused once the whole dance through.
When we stopped, just pleasantly out of breath, as the last chords died
slowly away, he said, with his eyes on my face in that way that I have
described, "Why, Miss Maliphant, you are a heavenly dancer. Where did
you learn it?"
"I had six lessons at the academy in the town," answered I, gravely;
and I wondered why he burst out laughing, "but Joyce gets out of breath
sooner than I do, although she had twelve lessons."
The laughter faded out of his face as I mentioned Joyce's name.
"I don't mean to say that Joyce doesn't dance beautifully," I added,
hastily, "she dances better than I do, because she is so tall and
slight, but she does get out of breath before the end of a waltz."
He did not make any remark upon this. He only said, "Shall we go back
to your mother?"
We got up and walked across the room. Miss Thorne was talking to
mother, and a clean-shaven, fresh-colored young officer was inscribing
his name on Joyce's programme.
Captain Forrester just shook hands with Joyce, and then he came and
sat down beside mother and began talking away to her in his most
excited fashion, telling her all about the waxing of the floor and the
hanging of the banners and the trimming of the evergreen garlands, and
how the gardener would put the Union Jack upside down, until she was
forced to be more gracious with him than was her wont.
Joyce's sweet mouth had the look upon it that I knew well when mother
and she had had an uncomfortable passage, but I could not imagine why
she should wear it to-night. I could look across upon her programme,
and I could see that there were names written nearly all the way down
it, although I could not read whose names they were, and especially
after my one taste of the joy of waltzing, I was beginning to think
that no girl could have cause for sadness who had a partner for every
dance. Alas! I had but one, and my spirits were beginning to sink very
low. I had forgotten love affairs; I wanted to waltz.
"There is a dreadful lack of gentlemen," said Jessie Hoad, who had come
up beside us, putting up her eye-glass and looking round the room.
"That unfortunate man must have his hands full."
"Do you mean Squire Broderick?" asked Miss Thorne. "I don't think he
considers himself unfortunate. He looked cheerful enough just now,
dancing with Miss Maliphant."
Miss Hoad vouchsafed no reply to this; she moved off to where her
father was talking to mine in a corner, and passing her arm within
his, walked him off without the slightest ceremony to be introduced to
the old lady with the handle to her name who had come over from our
fashionable seaport.
I thought it was very rude, but Mr. Hoad was not quite as affable
himself to-night as he was in the privacy of our own Grange parlor.