should be a little dancing.

As Mrs. Barton said, it was of great importance to know if Olive knew
the right step, and who could put her up to all the latest fashions as
well as Milord? The old gentleman replied in French, and settled his
waistcoat, fearing the garment was doing him an injustice.

'But who is to play?' asked the poetical-looking Arthur, who, on the
highest point of the sofa, hummed and tuned his guitar after true
troubadour fashion.

'Alice will play us a waltz,' said Mrs. Barton winningly.

'Oh yes, Alice dear, play us a waltz,' cried Olive.

'You know how stupid I am; I can't play a note without my music, and it
is all locked up in my trunk upstairs.'

'It won't take you a minute to get it out,' said Mrs. Barton; and
moving, as if she were on wheels, towards her daughter, she whispered:
'Do as I tell you--run upstairs at once and get your music.'

She looked questioningly at her mother and hesitated. But Mrs. Barton
had a way of compelling obedience, and the girl went upstairs, to return
soon after with a roll of music. At the best of times she had little
love of the art, but now, sick with disappointment, and weary from a
long railway journey, to spell through the rhythm of the _My Queen
Waltz_ and the jangle of _L'Esprit Français_ was to her an odious and,
when the object of it was considered, an abominable duty to perform. She
had to keep her whole attention fixed on the page before her, but when