question. Presently he took the card from her.
"Is it filled?" he inquired.
"There's one blank--a square, towards the end," replied Peggy demurely,not thinking it necessary to tell him with what difficulty she hadpreserved that blank space in her programme.
"I can't dance," he said, reddening. "I've forgotten how. It wouldn'tbe fair to spoil your enjoyment. So many people would be grateful forthe privilege of dancing it with you."
Peggy shook her head.
"I do not feel like gratifying them," she said.
Very gravely and deliberately Mr Musgrave took hold of the tiny pencilhanging by its slender cord from the card, and, pencil in one largegloved hand and programme in the other, looked searchingly into the greyeyes that met his steadfast scrutiny with a kindly smile.
"Does that," he asked, "convey a gracious permission to me to write myname against the blank?"
"Not--unless to do so would be equally agreeable to you," Peggyanswered.
Mr Musgrave did not immediately remove his gaze from hers. So long,indeed, did he continue looking at her that Peggy felt her cheeks growwarm beneath his earnest eyes. Then he transferred his attention fromher face to the card he held, and wrote his name clearly, "JohnMusgrave," in the single blank space thereon.
"Thank you," he said, and returned her programme to her with a courteousbow.
Peggy, experiencing a timid embarrassment in having so easily gained herpoint, felt curiously inadequate to making any suitable reply. She tookthe card from him with nervous fingers and let it fall into her lap, andsat gazing into the fire abstractedly, concealing in this concentrationon the flames the tiny gleam of triumph that lighted the grey eyes. Thethought, shaping its f mutely in her mind in inelegant phraseology, was,in effect, that Moresby would sit up when it saw John treading a measurewith herself. Had Mr Musgrave divined that thought it is safe topredict that he would never have led pretty Peggy Annersley out on theballroom floor.
CHAPTER NINETEEN.
Moresby did "sit up" when Mr Musgrave took the floor with Peggy.
His conduct in doing so was all the more remarkable inasmuch as he hadnot partnered anyone else during the evening.
Miss Simpson, seated against the wall, neglected save by the vicar, whosought to entertain her conversationally since he did not dance, saw himwith amazed indignation take his place with Peggy in one of the sets onthe floor. She could not discredit her own senses or she would havedone so, but she was firmly convinced that the reason for his beingthere was governed less by inclination than by the designs of hispartner, in which surmise she was not wholly incorrect. John Musgravewould assuredly never have faced such an ordeal but for the persuasivewitchery of a certain fascinating dimple at the corner of a prettymouth. He was as hopelessly out of his element as a damaged war-vesselin dry dock. Indeed, if one could imagine a war-vessel competing in aregatta against a number of racing yachts, one would have some idea ofthe utter incongruity of Mr John Musgrave forming one of thedouble-sided square dance, and going bewilderedly and lumberinglythrough the intricate mazes of the different figures, guided withunflagging watchfulness by his attentive partner.
Fair hands reached out for his direction, bright eyes watched hishesitation good-naturedly, and their owners obligingly pulled and pushedand guided him to his positions, entering with such zest into thebusiness of keeping him to time that it could not be said he spoilttheir pleasure in the dance, however little enjoyment he derived from ithimself. Also, it was the one set in the room that was danced withpunctilious observance of the regular figures; to have taken theliberties which modern interpretation encourages with the time-honoureddance would have been unthinkable with Mr Musgrave's serious presence,his courtly bows, his painstaking and conscientious performancedominating the set. If the other men found it slow they resignedthemselves to the inevitable; their partners at least appeared very wellamused.
"You see," Mr Musgrave said to Peggy, his breathing laboured, as hepaused beside her at the finish of the grand chain, "I have forgottenhow to dance."
"You dance beautifully," Peggy assured him, smiling up into his seriousface. "The different figures are a little puzzling to remember. I amenjoying this immensely."
"Are you?" he said, in some surprise. "It is very kind of you to sayso."
A regard for truth prevented Mr Musgrave from echoing her sentiments:to sacrifice sincerity in an effort to be courteous was not MrMusgrave's way; but the knowledge that he was giving her pleasure atonedin a measure for his own lack of enjoyment. That his actions wereexciting comment, that heads were turned to watch him, that those in theroom who were not dancing were more interested in himself than in theother dancers, was not remarked by him. Mr Musgrave was sufficientlymodest to remain unconscious of the attention he received. The dancewas to him an ordeal of the utmost gravity, because of his stupidity andhis fear of spoiling others' pleasure in it; it was not, however, ahumiliating ordeal, as it might have been to a vainer man. In hisabsorbed attention he missed the smiles and the glances and thewhispered comments; missed Miss Simpson's flushed displeasure, and thevicar's amazed and smiling observation of his old friend's surprisingenergy; missed, too, his sister's bright glance of quickened interest,and his brother-in-law's amused grin.
"Coelebs?" murmured the vicar under his breath, and caught Belle's eyeand smiled at her.
Later he made his way to her, when the room cleared of the dancers andPeggy and her partner disappeared with the stream drifting towards thehall and the conservatory, and other convenient places fitted up forsitting out. Their eyes met in a glance of sympathetic understanding;then Belle linked a hand within his arm and suggested a retreat into theconservatory.
"Is your faith in the power of your sex increasing at all?" he asked,as, having led her to a secluded corner, he seated himself near her, andleaned back in a low chair with an air of thorough enjoyment.
"Ah!" she said, her face turned towards his, amused and retrospective."You remember that conversation."
"You did not believe, when you challenged Mrs Chadwick, that she wouldsucceed to the extent we have witnessed to-night," he said.
Belle became suddenly grave.
"Would you ascribe the success altogether to Mrs Chadwick?" she asked.
"Well, perhaps not," he allowed. "It is a vicarious triumph. But thesuccess is unquestionable. I experienced in watching John a return ofmy own youth."
"I wish," Belle remarked with some irrelevance, "that she was a littleolder."
"Why?" asked the vicar, divining her reason even while putting thequestion. The wish found an echo in his own thoughts, and had itsorigin in the same grave doubt.
"I don't think a girl like Peggy will fall in love with John," she said.
"The mere fact that John danced with her does not prove that he is inany immediate danger of falling in love with her," he returned. "Idon't suppose such an idea ever entered his head."
Belle laughed.
"I don't suppose it did," she agreed. "But I think she has the power toinspire the emotion in him. It would be regrettable if she succeeded indoing that without intending it."
"It would," he allowed, and was silent for a space, recognising theinability of John's friends to safeguard him against the danger if MissPeggy Annersley chose to work in opposition to them. "She seems," hesuggested hopefully, "to be quite kind and sincere."
"She is an incorrigible little flirt," Belle replied, smiling at hisrather obvious attempt to reassure her. "I know her a good deal betterthan you do."
"All good women, I understand," he returned, recalling his wife'sremarks on the same subject, "flirt, given the opportunity. Since youmention the propensity in connection with her, I have reason to believeshe flirts with Robert. He has a poor opinion of her courage and agreat idea of her amiability."
"I can forgive her for flirting with Robert," said Belle; "he is such aquaint old dear. But... John!"
"I refuse," said the vicar with gentle firmness, "to enterta
in anyunworthy thought of her in that connection. She has probably succeededin discovering in John what you and I have failed in discovering--thevein of youthfulness he has concealed so successfully all these years.Forty is the prime of life. It will not surprise me in the least ifJohn proves himself to be more youthful than Miss Annersley."
"She is only twenty-eight," said Belle.
"John is younger than that in experience," he replied. "I am beginningto believe that at heart he is still a boy. No man who was not a boy atheart could have concentrated so much energy and earnest endeavour uponan exercise at once unfamiliar and distasteful. A