p fiddles are already beginning
to squeak out a gay galop, and I am tapping impatient time with my foot
to that brisk, emphasized music which has always seemed to Barbara and
me exhilarating past the power of words to express.

I think that Roger perceives my eagerness, for he brings up a, to me,
strange soldier, who makes his bow, and invites me.

I comply, with contained rapture, and off we fly. For I have pressingly
consulted Roger as to whether I may, with safety to my complexion, take
a turn or two, and he has replied strongly in the affirmative. He has,
indeed, maintained that I may dance all night without seeing my rosy
cheeks dissolve, but I know better.

The room is almost lined with mirrors. I can even perceive myself over
my partner's shoulder as I dance. I can ascertain that my loveliness
still continues.

How pleasant it is, after all, to be young! and how _delightful_ to be
pretty!

Does Barbara _always_ feel like this? It seems to me as if I had never
danced so lightly--on so admirably slippery and springy a floor, or with
any one whose step suited mine better. His style of dancing is, indeed,
very like Bobby's. I tell him so. This leads to an explanation as to who
Bobby is, which makes us extremely friendly.

We are standing still for a moment or two to take breath--we are
long-winded, and do not _often_ do it; but still, once in a way, it is
unavoidable--and everybody else is whirling and galloping, and prancing
round us, like Bacchantes, or tops, or what you will, when, looking
toward the door, I catch a glimpse of the three missing young men. They
are dodging behind one another, and each nudging and pushing the other
forward. Clearly, they are horribly ashamed of themselves; and, from the
little I see of them, _no wonder_!

"Here they are!" I cry, in a tone of excitement. "Look! do look!" for,
having at length succeeded in urging Mr. Parker to the front, they are
making their entry, hanging as close together as possible, and with an
extremely hang-dog air.

My partner has opened his eyes and his mouth.

"_What_ are they?" he says, in a tone of extreme disapprobation. "_Who_
are they? Are they _Christy Minstrels_?"

"Oh, do not!" cry I, in a choked voice, "I do not want to laugh, it will
make them so angry--at least not Mr. Parker, but the others."

As I speak, they reach me, that is, Algy and Mr. Parker do. Musgrave has
slunk into a corner, and sits there, glaring at whoever he thinks sho