We got up little concerts, with ourselves as audience. We played at whist, Mrs. Drummond and Miss Blount against dummy and me: such whist, where revokes and leading questions made startling variations in the game. We started a species of drawing-room tennis, till the ball was within an ace of bringing the lamp to grief; and one evening we had a dance. Mrs. Drummond was at the piano, when suddenly she dashed into a gallop. She did not generally play dance music well, but she was in the humour, I suppose, to-night, for nothing could be more spirited than her way of rendering the music.
'Really, it is too bad,' called out Miss Blount; 'it's positively aggravating to listen and be still.'
'Why are you still?' answered the player.
Miss Blount half rose.
'All right,' I said, jumping up, and the next minute we were pironetting round the room; but naturally the place wasn't arranged for that sort of thing, and we found chairs and tables somewhat hard objects to come against. So we had to stop and clear the gangway, and on we went again. We stopped the second time by the piano.
'Go on!' cried Mrs. Drummond. 'I am not at all tired.'
I think my partner was quite willing, but I thought it was hardly fair to give the other all the work, we taking the pleasure for ourselves, so I daresay I lagged a little in starting, for she said,—
