The Brat has his little arm round the cook's waist--at least not all the way round--it would take a lengthier limb than his to effect _that_; but a bit of the way, as far as it will go.

An awful idea strikes me.

Must Ashton and I gallopade too?
I glance nervously toward him.

He is looking quite as apprehensive at the thought that I shall expect him to gallopade with me, as I am at the thought that he will expect me to gallopade with him.
I do not know how it is that we make our mutual alarm known to each other, only I know that, while all the world is gallopading round us, we gallopade not.

Instead, we take hands, and jig distantly round each other.
The improvised valse soon ends, and I look across at the Brat.