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.
“No, Mr. Temple; I had thought of keeping her, sir,” the young man rejoined blandly, greatly flattered at having been specially singled out by the distinguished Mr. Temple. “But if you are thinking of buying my mare, I should be most delighted to consider it. If you will permit me—I will call upon you in the morning.” This last came with elaborate effusiveness. “But you haven't a drop of anything to drink, Mr. Temple, nor you either, doctor! Egad! What am I thinking of! Come, won't you join me? The colonel's mixtures are—”
“Better wait, Mr. Willits,” interrupted St. George calmly and with the air of one conversant with the resources of the house. “Alec has just taken out a half-emptied bowl of toddy.” He had seen at a glance that Teackle's diagnosis of the young man's condition was correct.
“Then let us have a swig at the colonel's port—it's the best in the county.”
“No, hold on till the punch comes. You young fellows don't know how to take care of your stomachs. You ought to stick to your tipple as you do to your sweetheart—you should only have one.”
“—At a time,” laughed Teackle.
“No, one ALL the time, you dog! When I was your age, Mr. Willits, if I drank Madeira I continued to drink Madeira, not to mix it up with everything on the table.”
“By Jove, you're right, Mr. Temple! I'm sticking to one girl—Miss Kate's my girl to-night. I'm going to dance the Virginia reel with her.”
St. George eyed him steadily. He saw that the liquor had already reached his head or he would not have spoken of Kate as he did. “Your choice is most admirable, Mr. Willits,” he said suavely, “but let Harry have Miss Kate to-night,” adding, as he laid his hand confidingly on the young man's shoulder—“they were made to step that dance together.”
“But she said she would dance it with me!” he flung back—he did not mean to be defrauded.
“Really?” It was wonderful how soft St. George's voice could be. Teackle could not have handled a refractory patient the better.
“Well, that is,” rejoined Willits, modified by Temple's tone—“she is to let me know—that was the bargain.”
Still another soft cadence crept into St. George's voice: “Well, even if she did say she would let you know, do be a little generous. Miss Seymour is always so obliging; but she ought really to dance the reel with Harry to-night.” He used Kate's full name, but Willits's head was buzzing too loudly for him to notice the delicately suggested rebuke.
“Well, I don't see that, and I'm not going to see it, either. Harry's always coming in between us; he tried to get Miss Kate away from me a little while ago, but he didn't succeed.”
“Noblesse oblige, my dear Mr. Willits,” rejoined St. George in a more positive tone. “He is host, you know, and the ball is given to Miss Seymour, and Harry can do nothing else but be attentive.” He felt like strangling the cub, but it was neither the time nor place—nothing should disturb Kate's triumph if he could help it. One way was to keep Willits sober, and this he intended to do whether the young man liked it or not—if he talked to him all night.
“But it is my dance,” Willits broke out. “You ask him if it isn't my dance—he heard what Miss Kate said. Here comes Harry now.”
Like a breath of west wind our young prince blew in, his face radiant, his eyes sparkling. He had entirely forgotten the incident on the stairs in the rapture of Kate's kisses, and Willits was once more one of the many guests he was ready to serve and be courteous to.
“Ah, gentlemen—I hope you have everything you want!” he cried with a joyous wave of his hand. “Where will I get an ice for Kate, Uncle George? We are just about beginning the Virginia reel and she is so warm. Oh, we have had such a lovely waltz! Why are you fellows not dancing? Send them in, Uncle George.” He was brimming over with happiness.
Willits moved closer: “What did you say? The Virginia reel? Has it begun?” His head was too muddled for quick thinking.
“Not yet, Willits, but it will right away—everybody is on the floor now,” returned Harry, his eyes in search of something to hold Kate's refreshment.
“Then it is my dance, Harry. I thought the reel was to be just before supper or I would have hunted Miss Kate up.”
“So it is,” laughed Harry, catching up an empty plate from the serving table and moving to where the ices were spread. “You ought to know, for you told her yourself. It is about to begin. They were taking their partners when I left.”
“Then that's MY reel,” Willits insisted. “You heard what Miss Kate said, Harry—that's what I told you too, Mr. Temple,” and he turned to St. George for confirmation.
“Oh, but you are mistaken, Langdon,” continued Harry, bending over the dish. “She said she would decide later on whether to give you the reel or a schottische—and she has. Miss Kate dances this reel with me.” There was a flash in his eye as he spoke, but he was still the host.
“And I suppose you will want the one after supper too,” snapped Willits. He had edged closer and was now speaking to Harry's bent back.
“Why, certainly, if Miss Kate is willing and wishes it,” rejoined Harry simply, still too intent on having the ice reach his sweetheart at the earliest possible moment to notice either Willits's condition or his tone of voice.
Willits sprang forward just as Harry regained his erect position. “No you won't, sir!” he cried angrily. “I've got some rights here and I'm going to protect them. I'll ask Miss Kate myself and find out whether I am to be made a fool of like this,” and before St. George could prevent started for the door.
Harry dropped the plate on the table and blocked the enraged man's exit with his outstretched arm. He was awake now—wide awake—and to the cause.
“You'll