f constraint; everybody knew everybody
else, so they danced. This was the beginning; cards would come later.

They could all dance, and right well, too. Faces devoid of the
absorbing properties of powder quickly shone with the exercise;
complexions innocent of all trace of pigments and the toilet arts
glowed with a healthy hue and beamed with perfect happiness. There
could be no doubt that Prudence and her mother knew their world as
well as any hostess could wish. And it was all so easy; no formality,
few punctilios to observe--just free-and-easy good-fellowship.

Mrs. Malling emerged from the region of the kitchen. She was a little
heated with her exertions, and a stray wisp or two of grey hair
escaping from beneath her quaint lace cap testified to her culinary
exertions. She had been stooping at her ovens regardless of her
appearance. She found her daughter standing beside the door of the
parlour engaged in a desultory conversation with Peter Furrer.
Prudence hailed her mother with an air of relief, and the monumental
Peter moved heavily away.

"Oh, mother dear, it's too bad of you," exclaimed the girl, gazing at
her critically. "And after all the trouble I took with your cap! Look
at it now. It's all on one side, and your hair is sticking out
like--like--Timothy grass. Stand still while I fix it."

The girl's deft fingers soon arranged her mother afresh, the old lady
protesting all the while, but submitting patiently to the operation.

"There, there; you children think of nothing but pushing and patting
and tittivating. La, but one 'ud think I was going to sit down at
table with a King or a Minister of the Church. Nobody's going to look
at me, child--until the victuals come on. Besides, what does it matter
with neighbours? Look at old Gleichen over there, bowing and scraping
to Mrs. Ganthorn; one would think it wasn't his way to do nothing
else. He's less elaborate when he's trailing after his plough. My, but
I can't abide such pretending. Guess some folks think women are blind.
And where's George Iredale? I don't see him. Now there'd be some
excuse for his doing the grand. He's a gentleman born and bred."

"Ah, yes, mother, we all know your weakness for Mr. Iredale," replied
Prudence, with an affectionate finishing pat to the grey old head.
"But then he just wouldn't 'bow and scrape,' as you call it, to Mrs.
Ganthorn or anybody else. He's not the sort for that kind of thing. He
hasn't come yet. I'll bring him