She lifted the little decorated programme hanging from her fan and studied it, wrinkling her pretty brows over the undecipherable initials which defaced its page.

"I don't believe you have asked me for a single dance," she said, the faintest trace of reproach perceptible in her voice.

Before this attack Mr Musgrave experienced some embarrassment. The rebuke in its directness was tantamount to an accusation of negligence; in its suggestion of an invitation it implied a compliment. John Musgrave was as much discomfited by the one as by the other.

"I--I didn't wish to trespass on your good nature to that extent," he replied.

"Isn't that just a little unkind?" hazarded Peggy, with a smile which brought the dimple into play.

Mr Musgrave fell to studying the dimple while Peggy studied her card, and became so intent in this pleasing form of research that he omitted to answer her 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 had preserved that blank space in her programme.

"I can't dance," he said, reddening. "I've forgotten how. It wouldn't be fair to spoil your enjoyment. So many people would be grateful for the 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 pencil hanging by its slender cord from the card, and, pencil in one large gloved hand and programme in the other, looked searchingly into the grey eyes that met his steadfast scrutiny with a kindly smile.

"Does that," he asked, "convey a gracious permission to me to write my name against the blank?"

"Not--unless to do so would be equally agreeable to you," Peggy answered.

Mr Musgrave did not immediately remove his gaze from hers. So long, indeed, did he continue looking at her that Peggy felt her cheeks grow warm beneath his earnest eyes. Then he transferred his attention from her face to the card he held, and wrote his name clearly, "John Musgrave," in the single blank space thereon.

"Thank you," he said, and returned her programme to her with a courteous bow.

Peggy, experiencing a timid embarrassment in having so easily gained her point, felt curiously inadequate to making any suitable reply. She took the card from him with nervous fingers and let it fall into her lap, and sat gazing into the fire abstractedly, concealing in this concentration on the flames the tiny gleam of triumph that lighted the grey eyes. The thought, shaping its f mutely in her mind in inelegant phraseology, was, in effect, that Moresby would sit up when it saw John treading a measure with herself. Had Mr Musgrave divined that thought it is safe to predict that he would never have led pretty Peggy Annersley out on the ballroom 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 had not partnered anyone else during the evening.

Miss Simpson, seated against the wall, neglected save by the vicar, who sought to entertain her conversationally since he did not dance, saw him with amazed indignation take his place with Peggy in one of the sets on the floor. She could not discredit her own senses or she would have done so, but she was firmly convinced that the reason for his being there was governed less by inclination than by the designs of his partner, in which surmise she was not wholly incorrect. John Musgrave would assuredly never have faced such an ordeal but for the persuasive witchery of a certain fascinating dimple at the corner of a pretty mouth. He was as hopelessly out of his element as a damaged war-vessel in dry dock. Indeed, if one could imagine a war-vessel competing in a regatta against a number of racing yachts, one would have some idea of the utter incongruity of Mr John Musgrave forming one of the double-sided square dance, and going bewilderedly and lumberingly through the intricate mazes of the different figures, guided with unflagging watchfulness by his attentive partner.

Fair hands reached out for his direction, bright eyes watched his hesitation good-naturedly, and their owners obligingly pulled and pushed and guided him to his positions, entering with such zest into the business of keeping him to time that it could not be said he spoilt their pleasure in the dance, however little enjoyment he derived from it himself. Also, it was the one set in the room that was danced with punctilious observance of the regular figures; to have taken the liberties which modern interpretation encourages with the time-honoured dance would have been unthinkable with Mr Musgrave's serious presence, his courtly bows, his painstaking and conscientious performance dominating the set. If the other men found it slow they resigned themselves to the inevitable; their partners at least appeared very well amused.

"You see," Mr Musgrave said to Peggy, his breathing laboured, as he paused beside her at the finish of the grand chain, "I have forgotten how to dance."

"You dance beautifully," Peggy assured him, smiling up into his serious face. "The different figures are a little puzzling to remember. I am enjoying this immensely."

"Are you?" he said, in some surprise. "It is very kind of you to say so."

A regard for truth prevented Mr Musgrave from echoing her sentiments: to sacrifice sincerity in an effort to be courteous was not Mr Musgrave's way; but the knowledge that he was giving her pleasure atoned in a measure for his own lack of enjoyment. That his actions were exciting comment, that heads were turned to watch him, that those in the room who were not dancing were more interested in himself than in the other dancers, was not remarked by him. Mr Musgrave was sufficiently modest to remain unconscious of the attention he received. The dance was to him an ordeal of the utmost gravity, because of his stupidity and his fear of spoiling others' pleasure in it; it was not, however, a humiliating ordeal, as it might have been to a vainer man. In his absorbed attention he missed the smiles and the glances and the whispered comments; missed Miss Simpson's flushed displeasure, and the vicar's amazed and smiling observation of his old friend's surprising energy; 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 eye and smiled at her.

Later he made his way to her, when the room cleared of the dancers and Peggy and her partner disappeared with the stream drifting towards the hall and the conservatory, and other convenient places fitted up for sitting out. Their eyes met in a glance of sympathetic understanding; then Belle linked a hand within his arm and suggested a retreat into the conservatory.

"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, and leaned 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 would succeed 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 the success is unquestionable. I experienced in watching John a return of my own youth."

"I wish," Belle remarked with some irrelevance, "that she was a little older."

"Why?" asked the vicar, divining her reason even while putting the question. The wish found an echo in his own thoughts, and had its origin 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 in any immediate danger of falling in love with her," he returned. "I don'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 to inspire the emotion in him. It would be regrettable if she succeeded in doing that without intending it."

"It would," he allowed, and was silent for a space, recognising the inability of John's friends to safeguard him against the danger if Miss Peggy Annersley chose to work in opposition to them. "She seems," he suggested hopefully, "to be quite kind and sincere."

"She is an incorrigible little flirt," Belle replied, smiling at his rather obvious attempt to reassure her. "I know her a good deal better than you do."

"All good women, I understand," he returned, recalling his wife's remarks on the same subject, "flirt, given the opportunity. Since you mention the propensity in connection with her, I have reason to believe she flirts with Robert. He has a poor opinion of her courage and a great idea of her amiability."

"I can forgive her for flirting with Robert," said Belle; "he is such a quaint old dear. But... John!"

"I refuse," said the vicar with gentle firmness, "to entertain any unworthy thought of her in that connection. She has probably succeeded in discovering in John what you and I have failed in discovering--the vein of youthfulness he has concealed so successfully all these years.

Forty is the prime of life. It will not surprise me in the least if John 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 beginning to believe that at heart he is still a boy. No man who was not a boy at heart could have concentrated so much energy and earnest endeavour upon an exercise at once unfamiliar and distasteful. A boy will do what he dislikes doing if he recognises that the doing is expected of him; a man studies in preference his inclination. You cannot urge that John's inclination tends, towards dancing."

"No," she answered. "But I can dispute your point, because plainly John's inclination tends towards pleasing Peggy."

"Well, yes," the vicar conceded. "I begin to believe you are right."