“Your sister says I dance badly.”
“I said you were a disagreeable dancer,” said Hildegarde; “other people may think differently; but I particularly dislike being held so close, and having——”
Hamilton’s face became crimson, and she left her sentence unfinished.
“Perhaps people dance differently in England,” suggested Crescenz.
“Most probably they do not waltz at all there,” said Major Stultz.
Hamilton explained with extraordinary warmth.
“Well, at all events—it is—and will ever remain, a German national dance; and, so I suppose, without giving offence, I may say that we Germans dance it better than you English. I have no doubt that you dance country-dances and Scotch reels perfectly, but——”
“I have never danced either the one or the other,” said Hamilton, with a look of sovereign contempt.
“Well, Francaise’s quadrilles, or whatever you call those complicated dances now coming into fashion here.”
Hamilton did not answer; he had turned to Crescenz, and was now insisting on her waltzing with him, that she might tell him the fault in his dancing. She murmured the words, “Extra tour,” which seemed to satisfy Major Stultz and then complied with his request. It was singular that Crescenz did not complain of being held too closely; she was not disposed to find any fault whatever with his performance; and it was with some difficulty that he induced her to say that there was something a little foreign in his manner, and that she believed he did not dance quite so smoothly as a German.