He said, at last: "These Boer dances are very low things;" and then, as soon as it had gone from him, he thought it was not a clever remark, and wished it back.
Before Lyndall replied Em looked in at the door.
"Oh, come," she said; "they are going to have the cushion-dance.

I do not want to kiss any of these fellows.

Take me quickly." She slipped her hand into Gregory's arm.
"It is so dusty, Em; do you care to dance any more ?" he asked, without rising.
"Oh, I do not mind the dust, and the dancing rests me." But he did not move.
"I feel tired; I do not think I shall dance again," he said.
Em withdrew her hand, and a young farmer came to the door and bore her off.
"I have often imagined," remarked Gregory--but Lyndall had risen.
"I am tired," she said.

"I wonder where Waldo is; he must take me home.
These people will not leave off till morning, I suppose; it is three already." She made her way past the fiddlers, and a bench full of tired dancers, and passed out at the front door.

On the stoep a group of men and boys were smoking, peeping in at the windows, and cracking coarse jokes.
Waldo was certainly not among them, and she made her way to the carts and wagons drawn up at some distance from the homestead.
"Waldo," she said, peering into a large cart, "is that you?
I am so dazed with the tallow candles, I see nothing." He had made himself a place between the two seats.