Flora was somewhat uneasy, but the mother was looking on smiling, and expressed her delight in the young midshipman; and Mrs. Rivers, while listening gladly to his praises, watched heedfully, and was reassured to see that dancing was as natural to him as everything else; his steps were light as a feather, his movement all freedom and joy, without being boisterous, and his boyish chivalry as pretty a sight as any one could wish to see.
If the rest of the world enjoyed their dances a quarter as much as did “Mr. May,” they were enviable people, and he contributed not a little to their pleasure, if merely by the sight of his blithe freshness and spirited simplicity, as well as the general sympathy with his sister’s joy, and the interest in his adventures. He would have been a general favourite, if he had been far less personally engaging; as it was, every young lady was in raptures at dancing with him, and he did his best to dance with them all; and to try to stir up Norman, who, after Meta had been obliged to leave him, and go to act her share of the part of hostess, had disposed of himself against a wall, where he might live out the night.
“Ha! June! what makes you stand sentry there? Come and dance, and have some of the fun! Some of these girls are the nicest partners in the world. There’s that Lady Alice, something with the dangling things in her hair, sitting down now—famous at a polka. Come along, I’ll introduce you. It will do you good.”
“I know nothing of dancing,” said Norman, beginning to apprehend that he might be dragged off, as often he had been to cricket or football, and by much the same means.
“Comes by nature, when you hear the music. Ha! what a delicious polka! Come along, or I must be off! She will be waiting for me, and she is the second prettiest girl here! Come!”
“I have been trying to make something of him, Harry,” said the ubiquitous Flora, “but I don’t know whether it is mauvaise honte, or headache.”
“I see! Poor old June!” cried Harry. “I’ll get you an ice at once, old fellow! Nothing like one for setting a man going!”
Before Norman could protest, Harry had flown off.
“Flora,” asked Norman, “is—are the Walkinghames here?”
“Yes. Don’t you see Sir Henry. That fine-looking man with the black moustache. I want you to know him. He is a great admirer of your prize poem and of Dr. Spencer.”