And, behold! I was launched out there and then into an acquaintance. My cavalier surveyed me, and I surveyed my cavalier, with much gravity. He was fair, slight, rather good-looking, and clean-shaven. He displayed a vast expanse of shirt-front, and wore a pair of exquisitely fitting gloves.
“Well, I suppose we must obey orders,” he answered, “whether you want tea or not.”
We accordingly wended our way to the buffet, where he exerted himself to procure me a cup of coffee, and stood and watched me as I sipped it. I looked up suddenly, and caught his rather small, keen blue eyes fixed on me, and nearly upset the contents of my cup over the front of my immaculate white gown.
“These sort of half-and-half affairs are ghastly,” he remarked, as he took my cup. “Don’t you think so?”
“No; I do not,” I answered bravely, for this fine old house, crowds of gay, well-dressed people, delicious strains of a string band, lights, flowers, pictures, were to my mind extremely enjoyable. “But, of course, I should prefer a real dance.”
“And I should not,” he rejoined energetically. “Here, at least, you can sneak away and go to sleep in a comfortable armchair; but at what you call a ‘real dance,’ upon my word, the way in which hostesses drive and hustle one about is enough to call for the intervention of the police or the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals; and, if you stand against a wall, people trample on your feet!” At the mere recollection of his sufferings, he almost looked as if he was going to cry.
“The remedy is in your own hands,” I replied unfeelingly. “Dance.”
“No, no,”—shaking his head,—“not if I know it. I don’t mind sitting out now and then, just to oblige; but I draw the line at dancing. I’m too old.”
I gazed at him in amazement. He could not be more than four or five-and-twenty at the most.