"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. Blushing,
panting, struggling, chiding, laughing, her warm breath fanning each of
their faces by turns, she strove to disengage herself, yet still
remained in their triple embrace. Never was there a livelier picture of
youthful rivalship, with bewitching beauty for the prize.
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