In the strong farm-house, built with stones from the old castle walls, the party waxed faster. Now they were dancing Sir Roger de Coverley and all the furniture was pushed and piled out of the way. Old Mr Merrow was standing on the table fiddling the tune at such speed that everyone was wheezing, and Roger was up there beside him, scarlet in the face with his efforts on the mouth organ. Fat Mrs Tewmell in her claret-coloured silk was whirling Meryon down the lines of clapping, stamping dancers and Tamzin and Rissa, catching each other's eyes across the gangway, exchanged a sudden glorious grin.