Puddifoot, still breathless from his last dance;
Bentinick-Major, tapping with his patent-leather toe the floor, eager to
be at it again; Branston the Mayor and Mrs. Branston, uncomfortable in a
kind of dog-collar of diamonds; Mrs. Preston, searching for nobility;
Canon Martin; Dennison, the head-master of the School; and many others.
It was just then a Polka, and the tune was so alluring, so entrancing,
that the whole world rose and fell with its rhythm.
And where was Joan? Joan was dancing with the Reverend Rex Forsyth, the
proposed incumbent of Pybus St. Anthony. Had any one told her a week ago
that she would dance with the elegant Mr. Forsyth before a gathering of
all the most notable people of Polchester and Southern Glebeshire, and
would so dance without a tremor, she would have derided her informant. But
what cannot excitement and happiness do?
She knew that she was looking nice, she knew that she was dancing as well
as any one else in the room--and Johnny St. Leath had asked her for two
dances and _then_ wanted more, and wanted these with the beautiful
Claire Daubeney, all radiant in silver, standing close beside him.
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