“I have no wish to go to London yet.”
“Yet!” said Mr. Vernon, with the somewhat fade gallantry of his day; “beauty even like yours has little time to spare.”
“Hands across, hands across!” cried Mr. Ardworth.
“And,” continued Mr. Vernon, as soon as a pause was permitted to him, “there is a song which the prince sings, written by some sensible old-fashioned fellow, which says,—
“‘Gather your rosebuds while you may, For time is still a flying.”’
“You have obeyed the moral of the song yourself, I believe, Mr. Vernon.”
“Call me cousin, or Charles,—Charley, if you like, as most of my friends do; nobody ever calls me Mr. Vernon,—I don’t know myself by that name.”
“Down the middle; we are all waiting for you,” shouted Ardworth.
And down the middle, with wondrous grace, glided the exquisite nankeens of Charley Vernon.
The dance now, thanks to Ardworth, became too animated and riotous to allow more than a few broken monosyllables till Vernon and his partner gained the end of the set, and then, flirting his partner’s fan, he recommenced,—