“Oh, but you are mistaken, Langdon,” continued Harry, bending over the dish.  “She said she would decide later on whether to give you the reel or a schottische—­and she has.  Miss Kate dances this reel with me.”  There was a flash in his eye as he spoke, but he was still the host.

“And I suppose you will want the one after supper too,” snapped Willits.  He had edged closer and was now speaking to Harry’s bent back.

“Why, certainly, if Miss Kate is willing and wishes it,” rejoined Harry simply, still too intent on having the ice reach his sweetheart at the earliest possible moment to notice either Willits’s condition or his tone of voice.

Willits sprang forward just as Harry regained his erect position.  “No you won’t, sir!” he cried angrily.  “I’ve got some rights here and I’m going to protect them.  I’ll ask Miss Kate myself and find out whether I am to be made a fool of like this,” and before St. George could prevent started for the door.

Harry dropped the plate on the table and blocked the enraged man’s exit with his outstretched arm.  He was awake now—­wide awake—­and to the cause.

“You’ll do nothing of the kind, Langdon—­not in your present state.  Pull yourself together, man!  Miss Seymour is not accustomed to be spoken of in that way and you know it.  Now don’t be foolish—­stay here with Uncle George and the doctor until you cool down.  There are the best of reasons why I should dance the reel with Miss Kate, but I can’t explain them now.”

“Neither am I, Mr. Harry Rutter, accustomed to be spoken to in that way by you or anybody else.  I don’t care a rap for your explanations.  Get out of my way, or you’ll be sorry,” and he sprang one side and flung himself out of the room before Harry could realize the full meaning of his words.

St. George saw the flash in the boy’s eyes, and stretching out his hand laid it on Harry’s arm.

“Steady, my boy!  Let him go—­Kate will take care of him.”

“No!  I’ll take care of him!—­and now!” He was out of the room and the door shut behind him before Temple could frame a reply.

St. George shot an anxious, inquiring look at Teackle, who nodded his head in assent, and the two hurried from the room and across the expanse of white crash, Willits striding ahead, Harry at his heels, St. George and the doctor following close behind.

Kate stood near the far door, her radiant eyes fixed on Harry’s approaching figure—­the others she did not see.  Willits reached her first: 

“Miss Kate, isn’t this my dance?” he burst out—­“didn’t you promise me?”

Kate started and for a moment her face flushed.  If she had forgotten any promise she had made it certainly was not intentional.  Then her mind acted.  There must be no bad blood here—­certainly not between Harry and Willits.

“No, not quite that, Mr. Willits,” she answered in her sweetest voice, a certain roguish coquetry in its tones.  “I said I’d think it over, and you never came near me, and so Harry and I are—­”