now they are off, giggling, ambling, floundering, and young George Tempest, entering hurriedly, looks about the room, and then comes up to me.
"I can't dance," I say confidentially, as he sits down beside me; "it is like a donkey gambolling in a drawing-room. Can you?"
Pretty well; but I should have thought you knew how; you are quite the nimblest runner I ever saw."
"One does not want to be nimble in dancing," I say gravely, "or it must be reduced to a method to answer. Jack says my head always hits the ceiling when I try to waltz."
"Miss Dolly seems to be labouring under difficulties," says my companion, glancing toward my little sister, who is ambitiously trying to reach the shoulder of the very tall lanky boy she has selected as partner; "he has lost her altogether two or three times. Supposing you and I see what we can do?"
"It would be worse than Dolly," I say, laughing. "No, no! let us sit still and look on. I want to ask you something, if you don't mind. Is Mr. Tempest your real father?"
"Yes. Why?"
"You are not a bit like him," I say, considering his comely features and the fresh bright look that, let folks say what they will about the expression that comes with years, etc., is goodly and pleasant in a young man's or a maiden's face. "He looks so dried up; so, so brown. Do you know, it is very rude, but Jack and I always call him the Mummy!"
Young George Tempest laughs, and reassures me as to a doubt that has just crossed my mind, as to whether that was a suitable remark to make to a young man about his father.
"Don't you think that on the whole papas are a great mistake, and that we should get on much better without them?"
"I don't know," says the young man, smiling, "but you surely would never say that of mothers?"
