As he got thus far he turned round towards me, and I perceived it was Sir George Dashwood. The meeting was as awkward for him as for me; and while a deep flush covered my face, he muttered some unintelligible apology, and Inez burst into a fit of laughter at the ludicrous contretemps of our situation.
“I will dance with you now, if you like,” said she, “and that will be punishing all three. Eh, Master Fred?”
So saying, she took my arm as I led her toward the ball-room.
“And so you really are not friends with the Dashwoods? How very provoking, and how foolish, too! But really, Chevalier, I must say you treat ladies very ill. I don’t forget your conduct to me. Dear me, I wish we could move forward, there is some one pushing me dreadfully!”
“Get on, Ma’am, get on!” said a sharp, decided voice behind me. I turned, half smiling, to see the speaker. It was the Duke of Wellington himself, who, with his eye fixed upon some person at a distance, seemed to care very little for any intervening obstruction. As I made way for him to pass between us, he looked hardly at me, while he said in a short, quick way,—
“Know your face very well: how d’ye do?” With this brief recognition he passed on, leaving me to console Inez for her crushed sleeve, by informing her who had done it.
The ball was now at its height. The waltzers whirled past in the wild excitement of the dance. The inspiriting strains of the music, the sounds of laughter, the din, the tumult, all made up that strange medley which, reacting upon the minds of those who cause it, increases the feeling of pleasurable abandonment, making the old feel young, and the young intoxicated with delight.
As the senhora leaned upon me, fatigued with waltzing, I was endeavoring to sustain a conversation with her; while my thoughts were wandering with my eyes to where I had last seen Lucy Dashwood.
“It must be something of importance; I’m sure it is,” said she, at the conclusion of a speech of which I had not heard one word. “Look at General Picton’s face!”
“Very pretty, indeed,” said I; “but the hair is unbecoming,” replying to some previous observation she had made, and still lost in a revery. A hearty burst of laughter was her answer as she gently shook my arm, saying,—