grey eyes wide, and then a flush came into her cheeks,
and she made a little disdainful upward movement of her chin.

"You didn't mind it once," she said. "I thought you might want to dance
with me. You liked to last term. But I'm sure I don't care if you choose
to be disagreeable. Go and dance with Mary Mutlow if you want to, though
you did say she danced like a pair of compasses, and I shall tell her
you said so, too. And you know you're not a good dancer yourself. _Are_
you going to dance with Mary?"

Paul stamped. "I tell you I never dance," he said. "I can't dance any
more than a lamp-post. You don't seem an ill-natured little girl, but
why on earth can't you let me alone?"

Dulcie's eyes flashed. "You're a nasty sulky boy," she said in an angry
undertone (all the conversation had, of course, been carried on in
whispers). "I'll never speak to you or look at you again. You're the
most horrid boy in the school--and the ugliest!"

And she turned proudly away, though anyone who looked might have seen
the fire in her eyes extinguished as she did so. Perhaps Tipping did see
it, for he scowled at them from his corner.

There was another sound outside, as of fiddlestrings being twanged by
the finger, and, as the boys hastily formed up in two lines down the
centre of the room and the Miss Mutlows and Dulcie prepared themselves
for the curtsey of state, there came in a little fat man, with
mutton-chop whiskers and a white face, upon which was written an
unalterable conviction that his manner and deportment were perfection
itself.

The two rows of boys bent themselves stiffly from the back, and Mr.
Burdekin returned the compliment by an inclusive and stately
inclination.

"Good afternoon, madam. Young ladies, I trust I find you well. (The
curtsey just a leetle lower, Miss Mutlow--the right foot less drawn
back. Beautiful! Feet closer at the recovery. Perfect!) Young gentlemen,
good evening. Take your usual places, please, all of you, for our
preliminary exercises. Now, the _chassee_ round the room. Will you lead
off, please, Dummer; the hands just lightly touching the shoulders, the
head thrown negligently back to balance the figure; the whole deportment
easy, but not careless. Now, please!"

And, talking all the time with a metrical fluency, he scraped a little
jig on the violin, while Dummer led off a procession which solemnly
capered round the room in sundry stages of conscious awkwardness. Mr.
Bultitude shuffled