his arm, and spoke only of the music, the other girls' frocks, the
arrangement of the supper-table. And at supper the stranger had not
only sat on the other side of her, but had talked all the time, and on
books, a subject entirely uninteresting to Zeb. Worst of all, Ruby had
listened. No; the worst of all was a remark of Modesty Prowse's that he
chanced to overhear afterwards.

So when the fiddles struck up the air of "Randy my dandy," Zeb, knowing
that the company would call upon him, at first felt his heart turn sick
with loathing. He glanced across the room at Ruby, who, with heightened
colour, was listening to the stranger, and looking up at his handsome
face. Already one or two voices were calling "Zeb!" "Young Zeb for a
hornpipe!" "Now then, Young Zeb!"

He had a mind to refuse. For years after he remembered every small
detail of the room as he looked down it and then across to Ruby again:
the motion of the fiddle-bows; the variegated dresses of the women; the
kissing-bush that some tall dancer's head had set swaying from the low
rafter; the light of a sconce gleaming on Tresidder's bald scalp.
Years after, he could recall the exact poise of Ruby's head as she
answered some question of her companion. The stranger left her, and
strolled slowly down the room to the fireplace, when he faced round,
throwing an arm negligently along the mantel-shelf, and leant with legs
crossed, waiting.

Then Young Zeb made up his mind, and stepped out into the middle of the
floor. The musicians were sawing with might and main at high speed.
He crossed his arms, and, fixing his eyes on the stranger's, began the
hornpipe.