“Oh, really, I should not like to victimize you,” I protested.
“Nonsense! Shall we say the first square and the pas de quatre?”
“Very well, if it will not be too fatiguing for you,” I replied, and he also scribbled on his cuff; and then we walked on into the picture-gallery.
The gallery was full of people, and between looking at them and the pictures the moments flew. I had not half made the tour of the paintings when I found Mr. Somers already claiming me. We went up-stairs to the dancing-room—two immense drawing-rooms, decorated with flowers and palms. The deep windows held seats, and there were two or three sofas at one end of the ball-room, otherwise it was empty. A string band was stationed in the conservatory. Many couples were swimming round to the strains of the Hydropaten waltz, and in another second Mr. Somers and I had joined them.
The floor was perfect, and the music corresponded. Dancing came to me almost by nature, and I had been extremely well taught; then I was young, slender, tireless. We went round, and round, and round, with an easy swing, until the waltz ceased in one long-drawn-out, wo-begone wail.
“Thank you,” said my partner; “that was a treat! Your estimation of your dancing is too modest. You dance like a South American.”
As I had never seen a South American, I could not say whether that was a compliment or otherwise. Whilst we threaded our way into the tea-room, I noticed that my partner appeared to know every one, and that they all seemed glad to see him. Smiling ladies accosted him and asked when he had come back; men slapped him on the shoulder, and I noticed that some looked hard at him, and then sharply at me. At last we reached our goal, and as he brought me an ice he said—
“Where did you learn to dance?”
“In Paris. I was at school there for four years.”