Chapter XIII
Society Jan

For a long time after Rob had gone I stayed down by the river. When I crept up to the house it was quite dark, so I slipped off to bed and pretended to be asleep when Pipi came into the room at eight o'clock. It wasn't till next morning that they missed Rob, but when they did—Oh! then things began to move along pretty quickly. Uncle Dan bristled with suggestions and wanted to organise a search party straight away. Uncle Stephen questioned each one of us closely, and though he looked both sad and sorry, his eyes gimletted us through till we began to see every wrong thing we had ever done sticking out in front of us. And Uncle John?

No, Uncle John didn't storm, he didn't rage, he didn't lift the roof. He didn't contribute at all to the general hubbub, but sat in his chair at the head of the table gazing straight ahead as if he were thinking so deeply inside that he hadn't time for talking and discussing everything with the rest of us.

Kathie slipped into a wondering state. She kept on wondering this and wondering that, and insisted upon dragging me into the conversation when I would much rather have been left out of it altogether.

"Ngaire knows more than all the rest of us put together," she said. "She saw him last, I'm positive. Where was he going, Ngaire?"

"I don't know."

Well, that was quite true. Rob had not told me.

"You do. I'm sure you do. I wonder—"

"Kathie's right. Tell us everything at once."

That was Uncle Dan, but of course I didn't take any notice of him.

"It's for his own good, dear," said Uncle Stephen.

"I—I—" I wanted to tell them that I didn't really know anything, that Rob had only said "Goodbye." But it's hard to explain sometimes. Suddenly Uncle John came out of his reverie.

"Don't worry the child," he said. "Ngaire, come with me."

He took my hand and we went into the office. Uncle sat down in the chair which twirls, and I stood up in front of him. I thought I was done for this time. Yesterday, when Uncle had shut me in this room, I had felt all anger and no penitence; to-day I felt all penitence and no anger at all. Ever since Rob had gone I had been seeing things with the uncles' eyes. They had been so good to us, and we were proving nothing but a trouble and a worry to them.

Uncle John pulled me to him.

"Why do you all dislike me so, Ngaire?" he asked.

"Oh! We don't!"

"Is it because I'm such a cantankerous old duffer? You must teach your uncle better. Why did Rob go, little woman?"

I couldn't answer; something was pulling hard at my throat and choking me.

"Were we too hard on him, I wonder? You must forgive me, Ngaire. And if we can bring the lad back—"

"We—we do love you, uncle. Why—Jan—was— s-s-saying——And—I——"

Oh, I wanted uncle to understand. He sat watching me, and for the first time I could see all the tied-up love looking out of his eyes. He seemed tired too, and his voice had an "old" note in it that made me long to throw my arms around him and tell him I loved him and loved him and would keep on loving him for ever and ever. Then I found myself in his arms, and he was holding me ever so gently.

Once I started it wasn't easy to stop; it seemed as if there had been an ache at the back of my heart ever since Rob had gone, and I was crying it away in Uncle John's arms.

I think we began to understand each other at that moment, and we've gone on doing it ever since. You see, we had a long, long talk. We meant to start right from the beginning again.

"And when Rob comes back," said uncle, "we'll start afresh with him too. We judged the boy too page 168hardly. As for that young McLennan——You're only a slip of a girl, Ngaire, but you're older than your years, and you'll understand why I never forbade his friendship with Rob. They would only have met in secret, and I thought Rob too clever a boy to be led away like this. Well, it's never too late to mend; we'll begin the search straight away. And when he comes home—to-morrow, or the next day, perhaps——"

But it wasn't to-morrow or the next day or the day after that. The uncles did everything that could be done, but they could not trace the boys; the world seemed to have swallowed them.

So we just had to go on waiting and hoping for the best. Mr. McLennan said it would do Alan a world of good; that he needed to knock round the world for himself a bit. I couldn't think it would do Rob a world of good, and I asked Uncle John if he thought Rob needed "discipline," as Mr. McLennan said Alan did. He looked at me kindly.

"Perhaps—a little," he said gravely; "but it will be a hard fight for the lad. We'll hope that he'll soon see the error of his ways. Cheer up, little woman! He may be back any time."

But the days went past and he never came. It was no use climbing to the top of the bank and watching for him down the dusty road while you swung backwards and forwards on the big, white gate.

It was no good strolling down to the river hoping that he'd come hack to you across the ford. You grew tired of rushing the mail bag, because there was never a letter for you in his dear, black handwriting. So at last you didn't talk much of him at all, but just went on hoping and hoping and hoping all through the days.

Everyone grew kinder for a little while after Rob had gone. Somehow I think that losing him made us realise how dear we were to each other and how large a blank the absence of one left in our lives. We didn't quarrel., bicker, and criticise each other quite so frequently and so frankly as we usually did. Pipi left off calling Jan "half-boiled carrots" except when she really had to, and Kathie darned all the holes in my stockings, though I don't think she realised when she began that it would take her two whole afternoons. Jock did all Pipi's sums for her one night, spending quite three hours over them and neglecting his own "work entirely. Unfortunately his answers wouldn't correspond with those in the book, so Kathie kept Pipi in next morning to do them over again, which made things unpleasant all round. Jan lent us hair-ribbons whenever we asked for them, and talking about hair-ribbons brings me to two important and exciting events which happened just about this time.

The first was the reformation of Jan by Uncle page 170Stephen, and the second was Kathie's engagement to Uncle Dan.

I'll tell you about Jan first. Do you remember the ribbons which Uncle Stephen bought from the hawker? Well, they were all for Jan, every single yard of them; there wasn't a squint of a piece for anyone else. Just imagine! Two blues, six blacks, two reds, two whites, four pinks, two sage greens, one speckley like a Wyandotte hen, four stripes, two soft, sheeny greys which reminded you of mother, three turquoise blues, a squashed strawberry, and a dead rose.

And all for Jan! You simply couldn't find her hair for bows.

You see, Uncle Stephen was teaching her to be dainty and tidy, and was beginning at her head and working down. It showed how clever he was, too, because, of course, Jan had to live up to her spandy hair-ribbons. She changed them every three hours, and appeared in reds for breakfast, blues for dinner, and pinks for tea.

Next there came from the city a long, bulg, parcel containing some really pretty remnants, and Jan set to work and contrived the funniest fit of a blouse you ever saw. Kathie laughed till she cried when she viewed the finished article, but Uncle Stephen said it was a very creditable attempt; perfection was not to be attained all at once. Jan didn't think so page 171either, and after a while I believe she just loathed the sight of a pair of scissors, a needle, or a sewing machine. Still she kept at it for Uncle Stephen's sake and because he wouldn't let her stop.

He even started reforming her feet, and gave her two pairs of slippers, new boots, and some elegant tennis shoes. Jan was not fond of tennis, but the shoes encouraged her. She used to play with Uncle Stephen against Kathie and Uncle Dan, and every time she looked at Kathie's feet, which were brown canvas and very shabby, it cheered her up. Uncle Dan told her to walk on her head.

"You'll get the full effect then," he advised; "At present the soles and a great part of the heels are lost to the public view. Now, if you just reversed yourself occasionally you would save shoe leather and be a thing of beauty and a joy for ever."

Kathie balanced her tennis racket on two fingers and laughed up at Uncle Dan, and he laughed back at her. That is how they were always going on. If Kathie said anything the least bit funny Uncle Dan laughed and encouraged her and made her feel that she was really quite clever. And when he made a joke (and he made plenty—all bad ones) Kathie rippled and gurgled and gurgled and rippled till Uncle Dan grew more conceited than ever and seemed to think that he was absolutely bursting with wit.

It came of being engaged.

When people are engaged they are always admiring each other—they can't help it.

Kathie and Uncle Dan had become engaged at the foot of the haycock.

While we were at the top!

Jan, Jock, Pipi and I all searched, but Pipi was always the lucky finder and reward getter. After a while Kathie found the process expensive, and her suspicions were more than roused when she discovered Pipi burying the "handsome gold engagement ring set with diamonds" in a cake of soft soap.

Pipi said she was doing it for a joke.

And then, before Kathie could scold properly, Uncle Stephen appeared to say that they were giving a children's dance to celebrate the opening of the new woolshed.

Of course we were all nearly crazy with excitement, and we were days preparing for it, and for weeks we thought of nothing else. Uncle John sent to town for new frocks for us all—a soft silk for Kathie; and the daintiest of white muslins for Jan, Pipi and me. Then there were fresh ribbons for our hair and the loveliest white stockings and slippers with buckles and bows.

And the supper! Mrs. McPherson and the maids worked "like Trojans," Uncle Stephen said. Kathie gave a hand too; but the results were so disastrous that Mrs. McPherson sniffed in disgust and Kathie sneaked out of the kitchen in despair. Uncle John and Uncle Stephen laughed at her efforts, but Uncle John said that all girls should learn housekeeping and cooking, and he asked Mrs. McPherson if she would teach Kathie and Jan two days a week.

"If you can impart a tenth of what you know I shall be perfectly satisfied," he said, not without flattery, for at times Mrs. McPherson needs careful handling.

Now she softened perceptibly and remarked quite graciously that she would "do her best." "You'll want them to learn bread-making, I suppose?" she asked.

"Yes, of course."

"And to jug a hare or roast a joint?"

Kathie turned up her nose in disgust; she didn't mind the cake and scone part of the business, but she wasn't looking forward to dealings with poultry and game.

"I've no doubt they'll learn quick enough," said the housekeeper with tremendous condescension. "You want them to study the whole thing from start to finish, I take it, sir?"

Uncle John said that was exactly what he did mean, so Kathie and Jan were, in a way, apprenticed to Mrs. McPherson. But they didn't start work until after the dance, as, just then, Mrs. McPherson had too much on her hands to spare time for their tuition. Indeed, we were, one and all, drawn into the preparations, from Uncle John down to Pipi. Even McPherson condescended to help us decorate the woolshed with great branches of evergreens and crimson star-spangled clematis which Billy, the page 175rouseabout, brought from the bush on the hills across the river. We polished the floor with spermaceti, and Jock, Pipi and I spent the morning in a kind of glorified slide.

The guests drove miles and miles to attend the dance: the McLennans from The Point, thirty miles off; the Johnsons from Te Whare; the Wintons from Tua Tua; the Simpsons from Waihola; the Leroys from Waiwera, nearly sixty miles away. They came in motors and in buggies, in wagonettes, in gigs, and on horseback, and most of them put up at Kamahi for the night. There were not half as many rooms as there were guests, so Pipi and I slept that night on a made-up bed on the dining-room-floor, while Kathie went to rest on the sofa and joined us with a bump in the middle of the night. It disturbed her terribly and left a big,' black bruise over her left eye.

Unfortunately the mark didn't disappear in a day or two, but rose rapidly, turning green and blue and black on the way. Kathie was in despair. Mrs. Johnson was giving a dance at Te Whare on the 15th, and Kathie and Jan and Uncle Dan had all been invited.

It was to be quite a big affair. All the people for miles around were motoring, riding, or driving in for it; and Mrs. Johnson was expecting a party from the city to swell the numbers.

"And three sorts of music," said Jan gleefully, "and decorations everywhere, and a golloptious supper with a lady and gentleman painted on top."

"Of the supper?" asked Kathie crossly, for the ache in her head had spread to her temper. But you couldn't blame her; she had been looking forward to the dance for nearly a month.

"No, the programmes." Jan was far too excited to take offence. "Kathie, what do you think? Uncle Stephen's giving me new slippers and stockings-white slippers, mind you, and white silk stockings-silk!"

"I never had silk stockings in my life—only mixtures," said Kathie dismally, feeling that this final injustice was on a par with the rest of her troubles. "But it doesn't matter. I'll have to stay at home anyway. How could I dance with a lump as big as a pigeon's egg on my forehead?"

"Perhaps it will go down," suggested Jan anxiously. "It isn't quite so yellow as it was yesterday, I'm sure. Have you tried raw beef steak?"

"Have I tried beef steak?" repeated Kathie with a wail which rose to a shriek. "Why, I've had half a bullock over my eye at different times. And it doesn't do it any good. Nothing does it any good; it won't start to get well till the week after next. Directly the dance is over it will heal in a day or two. It's no good, Jan; there's no hope for me. I'll page 177have to stay at home while you drive off with Dan and enjoy yourself. And just to think of my lovely new dress and the dear little ivory fan Dan gave me."

"You could lend it to me," Jan suggested kindly. "The fan I mean."

"That I won't! If I can't use it myself no one else shall. You'd better let down your evening dress, Jan. You looked all legs the other night. And mend that rent in your sash."

"Uncle Stephen's giving me a new one—a new sash, I mean," said Jan airily. "What colour would', you have?"

"Oh, white or blue." Kathie put her hand to her aching head, and Jan's heart melted. She offered her cologne and her smelling-salts, anything in reason; but Kathie, utterly miserable, declined them all. Jan, acting the part of comforter, declared that the bump was really declining; but Kathie said it was swelling still.

"It will soon be bump and head hooked on," she remarked. "It's no good, Jan. I'll have to stay at home while you have a good time and eat supper and get your programme full."

"Perhaps I won't get my programme full," said Jan with a sudden chill. "You know, Kathie, it's quite a grown-up dance, and I'm only asked because page 178Mrs. Johnson has a girl with her hair down staying with her. Perhaps I shan't get any dances at all."

"Of course you will. Isn't Dan taking you? He won't leave you to sit out. And Mrs. Johnson will introduce people."

"I'll pal up with uncle, anyway." Jan smiled happily again. "Something like this: First dance, Uncle Dan; second, Mr. Daniel Malcolm; third, The Pretence Uncle; fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, Mr. Uncle Dan; supper dance, Dan; extras, Daniel the Prophet."

Kathie laughed, but Jan went out of the room with thoughtful eyes and a creeping fear at the bottom of her heart. At first she had looked forward with nothing but joy to the festivity to which distance lent an added enchantment. But after Kathie's accident her old shyness re-asserted itself and she began to tremble at the prospect of facing the assembly without the support of her elder sister.

"If it wasn't for Uncle Dan I don't think I could do it," she told me. "I wish they hadn't asked me. If only Kathie were going I wouldn't mind a bit. There's only Uncle Dan, but if it wasn't for him I'd die on the spot."

But when the fatal news came she didn't die as she had said she would. She just sat gazing around too horrified for words, fearful of what she might say if once she let herself go. Uncle John broke page 179it to us one Friday when we were doing lessons in the schoolroom. We were surprised to see him, as uncle very seldom interrupted us in study hours.

"Dan is leaving for the city in ten minutes, Kathie," he said. "He is called away on business and won't be back for ten days. You had better run out and say good-bye to him, dear."

Kathie disappeared through the open window, and Jan turned to Uncle in sudden, overwhelming dismay.

"What about the dance?"

"It's all right, Jan." Uncle smiled, comforting what he considered a very natural disappointment. "Mr. and Mrs. Ferguson were in just now on their way to The Point, and they are calling for you on the great night and taking you with their party. So you won't miss the dance even if Kathie and Dan do."

"Oh!"

Jan tried to smile and look gratified, but it was a poor attempt which would have deceived no one but Uncle John. After he had gone she looked at Pipi and me.

"There! I knew that would happen."

"What"?" asked Pipi, inelegantly.

"Everything. First Kathie gets a bump and can't go; then Uncle Dan is called away to town on business, and the silly Fergusons come poking their page 180noses in where they aren't wanted and offer to take me with them. I wish I——People shouldn't ask girls to dances till they've got their hair up."

"You were glad enough at first; you didn't mind your hair when the invitation came," Pipi remarked untactfully. "I don't know what you're frightened of. I wish they'd ask me. I'd go quick enough."

"You're not likely to get the chance/' Jan answered spitefully. "It isn't a children's dance. Don't talk nonsense, Pipi. Who's frightened?"

"You!" Pipi said with brutal frankness. "Why don't you stay at home?"

This was too much. Jan wasn't going to be patronised by a youngster of ten—it wasn't likely.

"Stay at home!" she repeated. "My dear child, I haven't the remotest intention of doing such a thing. I fully intend to dance every dance and enjoy myself immensely.

She rose with dignity and sailed out of the room, only to rejoin us a moment later with a high colour and with Uncle Stephen, whom she had met in the passage and who wanted to know why she was leaving the schoolroom during study hours.

During the next few days she alternated between the heights and the depths, rising to the seventh heaven when certain mysterious parcels arrived from the city, and falling proportionately when she subtracted the probable number of her partners from page 181the total of the dances on the programme and discovered that she would have to sit out eighteen times.

Everyone was anxious that Jan should enjoy this, her first real dance, and took an interest in the details of her costume. From the city there came a long white box which, when opened, disclosed the daintiest of evening cloaks with real quilted lining and a silk hood.

"It's only once in a while. It doesn't happen often," said Uncle John, looking guilty.

"And it's no good spoiling the dress for a hap'orth of cloth," remarked Uncle Stephen when he presented Jan with a pair of white silk stockings, the sweetest of white kid slippers with silver buckles, a soft, sheeny sash', and new ribbons for her hair.

Kathie offered the second best of her two fans, and then, struck with generosity and a sense of the occasion, brought forth her latest acquisition and greatest joy, the carved ivory treasure—Uncle Dan's gift.

As for Uncle Dan, he sent a pretty, spangly scarf "to console Jan in her uncle's absence," and a tiny embroidered handkerchief "that she might decently conceal her grief."

Uncle Dan will joke, even on the most serious subjects.

Jan regarded her possessions with a pride that verged on awe.

"It's almost too good to Le true," she said, with almost a choke in her voice. "I've got everything that a girl ever had—silk stockings, white slippers, embroidered handkerchief, sheeny sash, and a dress that's nearly new—at least I've only worn it once."

"I'll lend you my little gold bangle," said Kathie, heaping favours upon Jan's already reeling head.

This last quite demoralised Jan. She passed the day in the wildest spirits, colouring the future with rosy expectation, revelling in anticipation of the festivity, the supper, the music and the dancing. Towards evening, however, she suffered a corresponding relapse, affecting a. somewhat sickly joy in the presence of the uncles and Kathie, but dissembling no longer when alone with Jock, Pipi and me.

Jock and I came in from the drive where we had been running races with each other.

"I just love the country," Jock said as we went inside to join the others at the nursery meal of scones, stewed fruit, strawberry jam, sponge cake, and innumerable cups of rather wishy-washy tea.

"This time to-morrow, Jan," I said as we entered the warm,. cheery room, "you'll be on your way, and a little later you'll be dancing."

"Oh, will I?"

"Yes; and then you'll be having supper, and more dancing."

"Do you know what I should like to be doing this time to-morrow?" asked Jan with profound gloom. "I'd like to be in bed with smallpox—real, live, big smallpoxes—then there'd be no possible chance of my going. They wouldn't have a small-poxer at a dance."

"Don't be afraid; they don't bite," advised Pipi kindly.

"Did I say they would?" asked Jan crossly. She paused for a moment, and then it came with a rush, the pent-up emotion of the last few days.

"I know what it will be. They will drive up for me and put me away in a corner of the motor and forget all about me. They will all be grown-up, awfully grown-up grown-ups! People should not ask girls of fifteen to dances." Jan was feeling pretty bad when she would admit any inferiority on account of her years. "Then they'll all dance, and I shall sit in a corner and watch them."

"You'll dance too," I said as she paused for breath.

"Will I? Will I? Well, if I do-which I won't —I'm bound not to enjoy myself. I'm sure to do something stupid. You know, Ngaire, the air is always thick with 'Excuse me's' when I dance. I never can remember the lancers, and when it's my turn to lead up I get into a muddle, and when I'm waltzing my feet always get into my partner's way, and he always says, 'I beg your pardon. That was page 184my fault,' when he knows all the time it was mine. And if the floor's the least hit slippery I'll tumble over like I did at our dance when I sat on top of Mr. Leroy till someone hauled me off. And I never can remember the new dances properly. Oh—I do wish I hadn't said I'd go."

"Not go!" cried Pipi reproachfully. "Ah! when you've got all those beautiful things."

"That's just it," admitted Jan mournfully. "I can't tell the uncles and Kathie, after they've been so good—after everyone's been so good. Besides, I wouldn't let Kathie know I wasn't looking forward to it for worlds. But, oh dear! I wish I could die in the night. What I want now," she added grimly, "is not smallpox, but just a nice, quiet tomb."

But no such kind fate intervened, and the fateful day dawned—clear, fair, with not a cloud in the sky upon which Jan could build up hopes of wet weather and storms.

"This time to-morrow it will all be over," I said to console her in one of her fits of depression.

"To-night's got to be lived through first," Jan answered miserably; but the next moment she was in raptures at the sight of the flowers Uncle John brought from the conservatory.

"Flowers are the best ornament for a young girl," he said, well pleased with the delight in Jan's eyes.

The day passed rapidly, and the thermometer of page 185Jan's spirits rose and fell at intervals. We studied, as usual, and to Jan French was a pleasure and mathematics a joy which was all too short.

At four o'clock she took tea with the uncles-sandwiches and cakes she wouldn't look at—and then Kathie whisked her away to the bedroom to dress. Kathie, by the way, was now nearly all bump; it had swollen enormously, and turned all the colours of the rainbow in its progress.

In spite of her aching head and her own disappointment she interested herself in Jan's finery, tying the sash as only Kathie could tie it, arranging the folds of the soft, white dress, and brushing the red-brown hair till it shone. Jan looked at herself in the glass and smiled, her spirits rising rapidly again, for the dress was all that could be desired, the coat was the daintiest imaginable, the new slippers and gloves were a perfect fit, the evening wrap was all fleeciness and so warm and comfortable.

At the last moment Kathie untied the bow which held Jan's locks in place and let her hair fall loosely about her face with just a narrow velvet white snood across her head.

"It makes me look so young," Jan objected, standing back to view the effect in Kathie's mirror.

"Oh, don't take it off," implored Kathie. "It suits you better that way, Jan—if you only knew how much better."

"It can stay," said Jan graciously.

Like a queen in state she sailed down to parade before the uncles, while Mrs. McPherson and Maggie and Mary looked in at the door, and Pipi and I hovered round admiringly, envying Jan and deciding on similar costumes for ourselves in years to come. Jan turned and twisted for everyone's benefit, and she looked so bright and so flushed and pretty, and so young with her hair about her face, that I saw the uncles' eyes soften as they watched her.

"Quite sure the skirt isn't too short about the legs?" inquired Uncle John anxiously.

"Golly! Jan always was leggy!" Jock explained.

"That's my girl. Mind you enjoy yourself," said Uncle Stephen tenderly as the motor-horn sounded outside and Jan gave him a farewell kiss.

"Got a hanky?" inquired Pipi anxiously with memories of her own shortcomings.

Jan dived suddenly, and I made a dash into the bedroom and re-appeared with the dainty, embroidered affair.

"Thought she might forget, like I did at the Ferguson's;" explained Pipi. "I just had to laugh an awful lot, an' I got some jolly good sniffs in without anyone hearin' me. So long, Jan. Bring home some cakes in your pocket."

"She hasn't got a pocket," said Jock scornfully page 187from the depths of his experience, as, in a confusion of words, laughter and kisses, Jan was hurled into the motor and driven, with a final triumphal toot, to her fate.

Afterwards she told me that, from that time onwards, everything happened just as she knew it would happen. To begin with they squeezed her into a corner of the motor and forgot all about her till they drew up in front of a brightly lighted homestead and unpacked themselves at Te Whare. She has detailed every incident of the evening so vividly that I can describe it almost as well as if I had been present myself.

I know just how she felt when, having been sorted out from her retreat, she was taken up the stairs along with Mrs. Ferguson and a host of excited, expectant girls. In the bedroom it was all a rustle and a bustle, and, somehow or other, Jan found herself divested of overshoes, coat and muffler, and whirled downstairs to a long room with a shiny floor and French casement windows which opened on to the lawn.

Outside the garden seemed part of fairyland, with lights twinkling from the green of the trees and peeping from between the low-growing shrubs and late roses. From end to end the drive was hung with Chinese lanterns which swayed to and fro in the breeze. But, alas! the sky, in envy perhaps, had page 188hidden the stars with a covering of soft, filmy clouds, which were rapidly spreading and threatening the fairyland in the garden.

Mrs. Johnson sailed up to Jan where she stood by one of the open windows. With her came a tall, dark girl whose hair was adorned with the latest and largest thing in bows, and whose self possession struck Jan dumb with envy. Afterwards Jan told me that she didn't believe that Nancy McKenzie was a day under twenty; that she wore short skirts and her hair down in order to look young. But some allowance must be made for the state of Jan's feelings, and Mrs. Johnson had certainly told us that she was only sixteen.

"This is the little friend I have asked for you, Nancy," she said, "Jeanette Malcolm. Jan, this is Nancy McKenzie."

"How do?" remarked Nancy, eyeing Jan superciliously.

"That's right. I'll leave you together to make friends. Nancy, took after Jan and see that she has a good time. Enjoy yourselves, dears." And Mrs. Johnson rustled away again.

Nancy looked longingly at the various laughing groups dotted about the room, but politeness held her to Jan's side for a few minutes at least. She offered a programme.

"Haven't you got one? They're awfully pretty. Take this."

"Thank you." Jan accepted the dainty piece of cardboard "with a lady and gentleman painted on the top," and nearly dropped dead when she discovered that, instead of the sixteen dances and two extras she had expected, there were eighteen dances and four extras—a total of twenty-two altogether.

The room was filling rapidly—girls big and little, girls tall and girls short, girls in pretty satins and chiffons, girls in home-contrived frocks of muslin and silk. But not another girl with her hair over her shoulders and childishly short skirts. Jan said she felt so young that she quite missed her comforter and her rattle.

Presently a youth approached the corner, and Nancy welcomed him with an elaborate bow and a smile. He was a very short, very bored-looking gentleman, and he booked three dances on Nancy's programme.

"Awful bother—come late—everyone's programme filled up," he said.

Nancy introduced "My friend Miss Jan Malcolm," and the tired young man asked "if he might have the pleasure."

"Are you engaged for the —er—the third lancers?" he asked.

Jan said she wasn't; she wasn't engaged for any-page 190thing. The freshness of her programme was unspoiled by any defacing initials. Though she had taken a dislike to the youth himself, she viewed with, satisfaction the oasis he left in her wilderness of blank spaces.

No one else approached the corner, and soon Nancy disappeared "to speak to someone she knew on the other side of the room." Deserted, and paralysed by her shyness, Jan slipped farther into the corner and remained unnoticed till five minutes later the music began and people sorted themselves out for the first waltz.

Afterwards Uncle Stephen, to whom she confided everything, declared that he could not understand how Jan could have been so neglected as she was that evening. Mrs. Johnson was a good hostess, and she had a grown-up daughter and a son to help her. But Jan said that it was all quite easily explained. Mrs. McKenzie gave her into Nancy's charge and thought that she was well looked after and that her programme was full or nearly full. Then, somehow or other, everyone forgot all about her and never missed her when——But I anticipate, as real grown-up books say sometimes.

Well, as I said, the music struck up for the first dance. Nancy pranced off with an immaculate young squatter, the eldest Miss Gray was dancing with a very short youth, the youngest with a very page 191tall one. Every girl; great and small, had seemingly found a partner; only Jan stood, small and alone, in the corner of the big ballroom. Fortunately Mrs. Johnson saw her and crossed over to her. Jan said she was so glad to speak to someone again that she could have hugged her on the spot.

"Not got a partner?" said the lady kindly. "I've the very one for you, Jan. Just a minute."

She went off and returned again with the bored youth of the oasis. He seemed hardly overjoyed when he saw his prospective partner. Jan said that, somehow or other, she didn't seem to have made a good impression. But he rose rather languidly to the occasion, and Jan went off on his arm and landed on his toes first round.

Next, losing her head, she bumped into three successive couples, lost track of the music and waltzed to a time and a tune of her own. She said it was terrible. She was only too thankful when the music came to an end and she could cease her gambols and sink into a chair in the drawing-room.

She tried to talk to the boy, to find, as Kathie had told her, his "particular subject," but she couldn't think of anything to say, and he was too bored and too superior to help her out. So they sat in a silence which was so appalling that Jan said she could hear it crack any time either of them ventured a word.

Again the music began, sounding its invitation, page 192and Jan's partner, with a relief which was hardly complimentary, piloted her into the ballroom and left her. Poor Jan! She tried to efface herself behind a kindly spreading palm; but, as she told me afterwards:

"I just seemed to swell and swell till I felt so enormous that I knew no one could help seeing me."

This time a kindly old lady took her in tow as no partner was forthcoming, and Jan sat in another room with two matrons who discussed the dancers and forgot all about her. She began to feel that, before the evening was over, she would work, from point to point, all round the house. Remembering Kathie's advice, she tried to smile and seem interested in things, but it was hard work, for she felt too utterly miserable, lonely and depressed. Oh! for home and the quiet security of the nursery, the kindly uncles, for Kathie's elder sister's protection, even for Uncle Dan's bad jokes and quizzical eyes. Kathie might have the silk stockings and the slippers, the fan, the cloak and the handkerchief. Never, never again would she venture to a dance.

Then the lancers. And Miss Johnson, the eldest daughter of the house, came up to Jan just as the music started.

"Are you dancing this?" she asked. "Because, if not, I've got the very partner. Tom." She turned to the man at her side. "Bring Dickie. He came page 193late and has been unable to get his programme full," she added.

Jan said she felt it—she knew it was going to happen; and in spite of her horror she could do nothing to avert the inevitable. Mr. Wilson returned with the promised partner, and Jan dared not raise her eyes because of what she would see.

"Mr. Jarden, Miss Malcolm," said Miss Johnson.

And, behold! it was the Languid One again.

He gazed in horrified recognition at Jan, and she stared back at him. Then, without a word, they rose and went through the performance anew, stopping half-way to retire to a seat and watch the others with weary, envious eyes. There they sat throughout the interval in a third terrible silence until, left to herself again, Jan flew over to the window in the drawing-room, and slipping behind the curtains, meditated a flight into the garden. Unhappily, however, the clouds had spread and were falling in light, misty rain. The veranda and the conservatory were occupied by various scattered couples; there was no refuge anywhere for a miserable, part-nerless little girl.

Two dances passed draggingly, and it was not until the third waltz that Mr. Johnson came into the room and ran Jan to earth in her city of refuge. She said she knew what he was going to say before he spoke.

"What, not dancing, Jan? That's too bad. Have you the second two-step? Put me down for that if you don't mind dancing with an old man. Programme pretty full? I'll bring that partner."

He bustled off without waiting for an answer— a cheerful, ruddy-faced man who danced with a vigour which took his partners off their feet.

This time Jan said she was not surprised. She slipped into a seat behind a tall palm by the door and awaited her fate, which came with the sound of footsteps and voices on the veranda outside. Mr. Johnson was speaking.

"I've the very partner for you," he said, and Jan heard him only too plainly. "The dearest little girl. She—"

Jan says that next she felt them pause; she couldn't see them, but she knew that at that very moment the youth came to a sudden halt.

"Is it a red-headed kid with long white legs who waltzes like a kangaroo? Because if it's that infant again I cry off. I've danced twice with her already, and I'm booked for another yet. My toes are aching still; she waltzed all over them."

Then Jan turned and fled.

She flew down an apparently deserted passage, through a door at the end out into the misty night air, rounding the corner of the house at a gallop. Then she paused, uncertain. The fairy lights were page 195dying among the green of shrub and tree; the drive was dark now, illuminated only by the flickering light of a particularly plucky lantern; from the house came the joyful, jumpitty strains of the lancers.

"That's the first figure," Jan told herself miserably.

She stood in her thin shoes on the damp grass, the air striking chill against her arms and thinly covered shoulders. Poor old Jan! She felt too utterly miserable, too deserted and lonely and unhappy to care. She leaned her head against a kindly old tree trunk, and something very hot and hard was gripping her throat.

"Why did I come? Why did I come? I might have known," she reiterated.

"Dumpitty, dumpitty, dum, dum, dum," rang out the music mockingly, and the sound of happy laughter and of merrily prancing feet came floating out into the cheerless night.

"Why did I come? Oh, why didn't I stay at home? I'm not like other girls—I'm just a silly blunderer. Nobody likes me—nobody wants to dance with me. They'd rush Kathie, but— —Oh, why didn't I say at home?"

"Dumpitty dum, dum, dum, dum. Dumpitty, dumpitty— —"

Jan looked round despairingly; the rain was falling, slowly but insistently, taking the freshness from her pretty finery. This was the final straw. page 196If it had been fine she could have sought refuge among the trees, have hidden herself away till it was all over, but there was now no shelter for a disheartened, miserable, lonely wallflower. She couldn't face it any longer in the ballroom; she preferred to melt slowly in the garden since even the refuge of the curtains in the drawing-room was now denied her.

"But what shall I do?" she asked herself despairingly. "What in the world shall I do? Where shall I go?"

She dragged herself back, round the corner of the house where the light streamed from the ballroom window, and where the sound of music rang out wildly, more mockingly loud. But Jan didn't want to be there now; she just wanted to creep away and die. Oh, she was really longing for that nice, quiet tomb just then.

She didn't find the tomb, however, but she found a big, dark motor, a derelict stranded alone on the gravel at the side, probably the overflow from the long line drawn up on the drive. Here Jan found a refuge, and here she remained, hidden and alone, for the next half-hour and the next five dances.

She saw the revellers stream out of the room on their way to supper, and became acutely conscious of her own hunger. Once a girl and her partner, and two plates of fruit salad ensconsed themselves page 197in a corner of the ballroom, and Jan said she couldn't help watching them enjoying themselves, though it hurt her to look. She was really half famishing now, very cold, and exceedingly unhappy.

She says that she must have fallen into a kind of a trance, for this time she didn't hear approaching footsteps or scent the smoke of a cigar till it had opened the door of the motor and was right on top of her. Of course, I don't mean that the cigar opened the door—you understand that. But it was held by a tall, bronze-faced, blue-eyed man, who drew back hesitatingly when he saw Jan.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "I did not know there was anyone here."

"There isn't," said Jan, "only me."

Afterwards she told me that she thinks it must have sounded rather stupid, but the stranger evidently took it for an invitation. He sat down beside Jan.

"Jolly little car, this," he began. "Will you excuse me if I smoke?" Yes.

"You're not dancing this dance?"

"No."

"We've not been introduced, but I think I noticed you in the ballroom a while back. Nancy Mc-Kenzie's friend, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Jolly set of lancers those last. Are you fond of dancing?

But Jan had turned her back on him and was gazing out of the window interestedly, the lump in her throat rising and threatening to choke her. She was going to cry: she was going to cry like a child in front of a stranger. She mustn't; she couldn't; she wouldn't.

She felt that he was watching her curiously, but I think there must have been a kind light in the blue eyes, for the next moment he threw away his unsmoked cigar, and Jan felt his hand touch her gently.

"Why, Kiddie," he asked, "what's wrong?"

Poor old Jan! She swallowed hard, but the harder she swallowed the bigger the lump grew. Something bright and wet went stealing down her cheeks, though she rubbed it away quickly.

"What's wrong, Kiddie?" asked the man again.

Suddenly Jan turned, and in a choking voice flung it at him.

"I dance like a kangaroo."

Oh, he didn't laugh. He was so kind, and considerate, and gentle, and withal so grave that somehow or other—Jan could never memember exactly how—the whole thing came out. During the recital she lost track of her dainty embroidered handkerchief, and the stranger lent his big, clean one.

"Have you had any supper?" he asked.

"No," said Jan. and added in a burst of confidence, "and no tea either—nothing to speak of."

"First of all," he said kindly, "we'll go together and have a square meal. I'm badly needing nourishment even if you aren't, but you are. After that we'll see what can be done about that programme. Have you many dances to fill in?"

"N-no, not many," answered Jan, half laughing, half crying. "On-only e-e-eighteen and four extras."

Then he laughed too; I don't suppose he could really help it. He took Jan's programme and broke the gloom of the wilderness by five little scribbled initials.

"Can you spare me that number?" he asked, just as if Jan had a packed programme instead of a hopelessly empty one. "You see, I arrived behind time, and I am not dancing much just now, so my programme, too, is necessarily empty. But if we can dance together I shall believe that all things conspire for my good. Now to supper, and afterwards I think I know one or two nice lads who will be only too glad to secure a partner."

But Jan paused in sudden horror.

"You'll get that boy again," she cried, the very thought disturbing her new-found confidence. "You won't be able to help it; it's in the air. Oh, don't! I couldn't dance with him again. Not if I had to page 200sit in this motor all the rest of my life for ever and ever:

"Then don't," he said very kindly. "Forget all about him. I'm sure he deserves no better treatment."

"Slip him up," cried Jan, rising to the idea and not troubling to disguise her joy. "Show him I don't want him—don't care to dance with him again."

"Just that," said the gentleman.

To supper they went, Jan leaning on the arm of the most distinguished man present. For he was distinguished—a hero of polar discovery. All the girls were "wild to dance with him when they knew who he was, but he danced only with Mrs. Johnson, Miss Johnson and Jan. At least, he didn't dance all those six dances with Jan—just two. You see, he had hurt his foot in the last expedition and could only use it a little still. So when they were not dancing he took Jan into the conservatory or the drawing-room or the softly-lighted veranda. And Jan walked up and down or sat with him, delightfully conscious that all the other girls were watching her with envy. She danced quite well too, he declared, not at all like a kangaroo; but, of course, that may have been only politeness. He brought three other partners to her—nice, bright-faced boys who couldn't dance too well, but who pressed Jan to come into the supper-room with them after each page 201dance, and then devoted themselves to the fruit salad or the lemonade, and urged her to try "some more of this jolly trifle" or a "little of this scrummy cake. It's first rate."

And Jan, feeling that they were not likely to be scandalised, made up for lost time, and began to enjoy herself after all. She forgot that she was nervous and shy, and laughed and joked quite comfortably with the youths, and they must have liked her after all, for quite three boys begged to be introduced to "that jolly girl." Jan danced all the extras, and the extra extras, and could have had partners for the extra-extra-extras if there had been any.

But the most wonderful event of that most wonderful, rather disturbing time happened next morning when the Polar hero himself drove her home, while Nancy, grown suddenly quite friendly and even respectful, waved an adieu from the front veranda, and Mrs. Johnson shook hands kindly, and bluff old Mr. Johnson extended an invitation for the very next dance at Te Whare.

"But I won't go," Jan told me that night when, Jock and Pipi safely disposed of in bed, we sat together in front of a glowing fire in the nursery. "Never again till I'm really grown up. It was nice at the last, but oh! Ngaire, it was just too awful for words at the beginning. If Mr. Corfan hadn't hap- page 202pened along I might have been sitting in that motor yet."

"But he did come, and he liked you," I said. "And, Jan, he told Uncle Stephen that you were a 'charming child.' I heard him."

"He's a darling," agreed Jan enthusiastically. "Just as grand in the little things—helping lonely girls at dances—as he is in the great big things. Ngaire, you should just have seen Nancy's face when we went out together for the sixth time."

Jan laughed happily, and then yawned so contagiously that Kathie, coming into the room, ordered us off to bed at once.

"And don't talk," she said. "You're both tired, and Jan needs sleep after last night's outing."

"How's your eye?" asked Jan perfunctorily.

Kathie raised her hand, but though the lump was perceptibly smaller, her face was sad, and she spoke in a voice of gloom.

"Better," she said shortly; "much better. It'll be quite right to-morrow. It started to get well the very moment the motor-horn sounded and you drove away down the drive."