One limped across the floor like a gouty grandfather;
one set a pair of spectacles astride of his nose, and pretended to
pore over the black-letter pages of the book of magic; a third
seated himself in an arm-chair, and strove to imitate the venerable
dignity of Dr. Heidegger. Then all shouted mirthfully, and leaped
about the room. The Widow Wycherly- if so fresh a damsel could be
called a widow- tripped up to the doctor's chair, with a mischievous
merriment in her rosy face.
"Doctor, you dear old soul," cried she, "get up and dance with me!"
And then the four young people laughed louder than ever, to think what
a queer figure the poor old doctor would cut.
"Pray excuse me," answered the doctor quietly. "I am old and
rheumatic, and my dancing days were over long ago. But either of these
gay young gentlemen will be glad of so pretty a partner."
"Dance with me, Clara!" cried Colonel Killigrew.
"No, no, I will be her partner!" shouted Mr. Gascoigne.
"She promised me her hand, fifty years ago!" exclaimed Mr.
Medbourne.
They all gathered round her. One caught both her hands in his
passionate grasp- another threw his arm about her waist- the third
buried his hand among the glossy curls that clustered beneath the
widow's cap.
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