"What is it to be, Mr. Willits?" she rejoined in perfunctory tones, glancing at her own blank card hanging to her wrist: he was the last man in the world she wanted to see at this moment.

"The schottische, I think--yes, the schottische," he replied nervously, noticing her lack of warmth and not understanding the cause.

"Oh, I'm all out of breath--if you don't mind," she continued evasively; "we'll wait for the next one." She dared not invite him to sit down, knowing it would make Harry furious--and then again she couldn't stand one discordant note to-night--she was too blissfully happy.

"But the next one is mine," exclaimed Harry suddenly, examining his own dancing-card. He had not shifted his position a hair's breadth, nor did he intend to--although he had been outwardly polite to the intruder.

"Yes--they'd all be yours, Harry, if you had your way," this in a thin, dry tone--"but you mustn't forget that Miss Kate's free, white, and twenty-one, and can do as she pleases."

Harry's lips straightened. He did not like Willits's manner and he was somewhat shocked at his expression; it seemed to smack more of the cabin than of the boudoir--especially the boudoir of a princess like his precious Kate. He noticed, too, that the young man's face was flushed and his utterance unusually rapid, and he knew what had caused it.

"They will be just what Miss Seymour wants them to be, Willits." The words came in hard, gritting tones through half-closed lips, and the tightening of his throat muscles. This phase of the Rutter blood was dangerous.

Kate was startled. Harry must not lose his self-control. There must be no misunderstandings on this the happiest night of her life.

"Yes," she said sweetly, with a gracious bend of her head--"but I do want to dance with Mr. Willits, only I don't know which one to give him."

"Then give me the Virginia reel, Miss Kate, the one that comes just before supper, and we can go all in together--you too, Harry," Willits insisted eagerly. "See, Miss Kate--your card is still empty," and he turned toward her the face of the one hanging to her wrist.

"No, never the reel, Kate, that is mine!" burst out Harry determinedly, as a final dismissal to Willits. He lowered his voice, and in a beseeching tone said--"Father's set his heart on our dancing the reel together--please don't give him the reel!"

Kate, intent on restoring harmony, arched her neck coyly, and said in her most bewitching tones--the notes of a robin after a shower: "Well, I can't tell yet, Mr. Willits, but you shall have one or the other; just leave it to me--either the reel or the schottische. We will talk it over when I come down."

"Then it's the reel, Miss Kate, is it not?" he cried, ignoring Harry completely, backing away as he retraced his steps, a look of triumph on his face.

She shook her head at him, but she did not answer. She wanted to get rid of him as quickly as possible. Willits had spoiled everything. She was so happy before he came, and Harry was so adorable. She wished now she had not drawn away her cheek when he tried to kiss her.

"Don't be angry, Harry, dear," she pleaded coaxingly, determined to get her lover back once more. "He didn't mean anything--he only wanted to be polite."

"He didn't want to be polite," the angry lover retorted. "He meant to force himself in between us; that is what he meant, and he's always at it, every chance he gets. He tried it at Mrs. Cheston's the other night until I put a stop to it, but there's one thing certain--he'll stop it when our engagement is announced after supper or I'll know the reason why."

Kate caught her breath. A new disturbing thought entered her mind.

It was at Mrs. Cheston's that both Willits and Harry had misbehaved themselves, and it was Harry's part in the sequel which she had forgiven. The least said about that night the better.

"But he is your guest, Harry," she urged at last, still determined to divert his thoughts from Willits and the loss of the dance--"OUR guest,"

she went on--"so is everybody else here to-night, and we must do what everybody wants us to, not be selfish about it. Now, my darling--you couldn't be impolite to anybody--don't you know you couldn't? Mrs.

Cheston calls you 'My Lord Chesterfield'--I heard her say so to-night."

"Yes, I know, Kate"--he softened--"that's what father said about my being polite to him--but all the same I didn't want Willits invited, and it's only because father insisted that he's here. Of course, I'm going to be just as polite to him as I can, but even father would feel differently about him if he had heard what he said to you a minute ago."

"What did he say?" She knew, but she loved to hear him defend her. This, too, was a way out--in a minute he would be her old Harry again.

"I won't even repeat it," he answered doggedly.

"You mean about my being twenty-one? That was rather ungallant, wasn't it?"

Again that long look from under her eyelids--he would have succ.u.mbed at once could he have seen it.

"No, the other part of it. That's not the way to speak to a lady.

That's what I dislike him for. He never was born a gentleman. He isn't a gentleman and never can be a gentleman."

Kate drew herself up--the unreasonableness of the objection jarred upon her. He had touched one of her tender spots--pride of birth was something she detested.

"Don't talk nonsense, Harry," she replied in a slightly impatient voice.

Moods changed with our Kate as unexpectedly as April showers. "What difference should it make to you or anybody else whether Langdon Willits's grandmother was a countess or a country girl, so she was honest and a lady?" Her head went up with a toss as she spoke, for this was one of Kate's pet theories.

"But he's not of my cla.s.s, Kate, and he shouldn't be here. I told father so."

"Then make him one," she answered stoutly, "if only for to-night, by being extra polite and courteous to him and never letting him feel that he is outside of what you call 'your cla.s.s.' I like Mr. Willits, and have always liked him. He is invariably polite to me, and he can be very kind and sympathetic at times. Listen! they are calling us, and there goes the music--come along, darling--it's a schottische and we'll dance it together."

Harry sprang up, slipped his arm around Kate's waist, lifted her to her feet, held her close, and kissed her squarely on the mouth.

"There, you darling! and another one--two--three! Oh, you precious! What do I care about Willits or any other red-headed lower county man that ever lived? He can have fifty grandmothers if he pleases and I won't say a word--kiss me--kiss me again. Quick now or we'll lose the dance," and, utterly oblivious as to whether any one had seen them or not, the two raced down the wide stairs.

CHAPTER IV

While all this gayety was going on in the ballroom another and equally joyous gathering was besieging the serving tables in the colonel's private den--a room leading out of the larger supper room, where he kept his guns and shooting togs, and which had been pressed into service for this one night.

These thirsty gentlemen were of all ages and tastes, from the young men just entering society to the few wrinkled bald-pates whose legs had given out and who, therefore, preferred the colonel's Madeira and terrapin to the lighter pleasures of the dance.

In and out of the groups, his ruddy, handsome face radiant with the joy that welled up in his heart, moved St. George Temple. Never had he been in finer form or feather--never had he looked so well--(not all the clothes that Poole of London cut came to Moorlands). Something of the same glow filtered through him that he had felt on the night when the two lovers had settled their difficulties, and he had swung back through the park at peace with all the world.

All this could be seen in the way he threw back his head, smiling right and left; the way he moved his hands--using them as some men do words or their eyebrows--now uplifting them in surprise at the first glimpse of some unexpected face, his long delicate fingers outspread in exclamations of delight; now closing them tight when he had those of the new arrival in his grasp--now curving them, palms up, as he lifted to his lips the fingers of a grande dame. "Keep your eyes on St. George,"

whispered Mrs. Cheston, who never missed a point in friend or foe and whose fun at a festivity often lay in commenting on her neighbors, praise or blame being impartially mixed as her fancy was touched. "And by all means watch his hands, my dear. They are like the baton of an orchestra leader and tell the whole story. Only men whose blood and lineage have earned them freedom from toil, or men whose brains throb clear to their finger-tips, have such hands. Yes! St. George is very happy to-night, and I know why. He has something on his mind that he means to tell us later on."

Mrs. Cheston was right: she generally was--St. George did have something on his mind--something very particular on his mind--a little speech really which was a dead secret to everybody except prying Mrs.

Cheston--one which was to precede the uncorking of that wonderful old Madeira, and the final announcement of the engagement--a little speech in which he meant to refer to their two dear mothers when they were girls, recalling traits and episodes forgotten by most, but which from their very loveliness had always lingered in his heart and memory.

Before this important event took place, however, there were some matters which he intended to look after himself, one of them being the bowl of punch and its contiguous beverages in the colonel's den. This seemed to be the storm centre to-night, and here he determined, even at the risk of offending his host, to set up danger-signals at the first puff of wind. The old fellows, if they chose, might empty innumerable ladles full of apple toddy or compounds of Santa Cruz rum and pineapples into their own persons, but not the younger bloods! His beloved Kate had suffered enough because of these roysterers. There should be one ball around Kennedy Square in which everybody would behave themselves, and he did not intend to mince his words when the time came. He had discussed the matter with the colonel when the ball opened, but little encouragement came from that quarter.

"So far as these young sprigs are concerned, St. George," Rutter had flashed back, "they must look out for themselves. I can't curtail my hospitality to suit their babyships. As for Harry, you're only wasting your time. He is made of different stuff--it's not in his blood and couldn't be. Whatever else he may become he will never be a sot. Let him have his fling: once a Rutter, always a Rutter," and then, with a ring in his voice, "when my son ceases to be a gentleman, St. George, I will show him the door, but drink will never do it."

Dr. Teackle had also been on the alert. He was a young physician just coming into practice, many of the younger set being his patients, and he often acted as a curb when they broke loose. He, with St. George's whispered caution in his ears, had also tried to frame a word of protest to the colonel, suggesting in the mildest way that that particular bowl of apple toddy be not replenished--but the Lord of the Manor had silenced him with a withering glance before he had completed his sentence. In this dilemma he had again sought out St. George.

"Look out for Willits, Uncle George. He'll be staggering in among the ladies if he gets another crack at that toddy. It's an infernal shame to bring these relays of punch in here. I tried to warn the colonel, but he came near eating me up. Willits has had very little experience in this sort of thing and is mixing his eggnog with everything within his reach.

That will split his head wide open in the morning."

"Go and find him, Teackle, and bring him to me," cried St. George; "I'll stay here until you get him. Tell him I want to see him--and Alec"--this to the old butler who was skimming past, his hands laden with dishes--"don't you bring another drop of punch into this room until you see me."

"But de colonel say dat--"

"--I don't care what the colonel says; if he wants to know why, tell him I ordered it. I'm not going to have this night spoiled by any tomfoolery of Talbot's, I don't care what he says. You hear me, Alec? Not a drop.

Take out those half-empty bowls and don't you serve another thimbleful of anything until I say so." Here he turned to the young doctor, who seemed rather surprised at St. George's dictatorial air--one rarely seen in him. "Yes--brutal, I know, Teackle, and perhaps a little ill-mannered, this interfering with another man's hospitality, but if you knew how Kate has suffered over this same stupidity you would say I was right. Talbot never thinks--never cares. Because he's got a head as steady as a town clock and can put away a bottle of port without winking an eyelid, he believes anybody else can do the same. I tell you this sort of thing has got to stop or sooner or later these young bloods will break the hearts of half the girls in town.... Careful! here comes Willits--not another word.... Oh, Mr. Willits, here you are! I was just going to send for you. I want to talk to you about that mare of yours--is she still for sale?" His nonchalance was delightful.