“I have had several friends in Europe whose fathers’ fortunes have found them titles, and on the occasions that I have stayed with them, they did not seem wildly enthusiastic over the equality of companionship. The head of the house had generally gone to town, or was taking a run over to Paris, and I wondered if it suited a woman very well who had been accustomed to have a small court about her at home, to find herself restricted to a husband so little her companion that she scarcely ever saw him.”
“But then you see, Miss Stuyvesant, she knows he is not down in Wall Street, or in some exchange, staking all his fortune on the rise and fall of stocks.”
“No,” she rejoined; “in the cases of my friends the women have to consider that their husbands are probably at Monte Carlo or Ostend. But really, why should we discuss it, Mr. Treherne? No one would ever fancy you admiring an American woman, and I, for my part, if I marry at all, would only marry an American man.”
With which delightfully feminine declaration, Miss Stuyvesant says “Good-night,” and abruptly leaves the astonished Treherne to realise that he has not made a good finish. Not that he cares seriously for Miss Stuyvesant; but Treherne is accustomed to find that women like him, and this girl, his instinct warns him, does not approve of him and his opinions. He feels annoyed, but there seems to be nothing to explain; his training and the circumstances of his life have made him conservative. He does not wish to love, nor does he especially approve of a young woman, however attractive, whose ideas differ from his own so materially.
And so next day, when he bids a formal “good-bye” to Mrs. Barry and Miss Stuyvesant, he tries to feel that in England he has more manly occupations than doing the agreeable to a young woman, and that woman an American. This is exactly what Mr. Treherne does not feel, nor does he mean to indicate it by his manner at parting. And so he goes off, consoling himself with the reflection that he certainly has found Miss Stuyvesant a pleasant companion for a sea voyage.
Three weeks later, in London, when the season is at its height, Miss Stuyvesant, who is looking radiant in a French gown, meets Mr. Gordon-Treherne at Lady Clanmore’s ball. She is on the arm of the American ambassador, and as she crosses the room with that unconscious grace of hers he feels that every man present would be glad to know her, to talk with her as he has talked, and something at that moment tells him that she interests him more than any woman has ever interested him before. Just then she sees him, and he fancies that a rather annoyed look crosses her face. Then she smiles, and he comes over and speaks to her and to her escort, who seems to know everyone.
“Will you give me a dance, Miss Stuyvesant?”
“Yes, but I have only this one waltz left. You see, you Englishmen do think that American girls are good partners—in a ball-room,” she adds slyly.
“I see I am not forgiven,” he says; and then the waltz begins.
What a waltz! Gordon-Treherne has had many good partners in his day, for he has always been a dancing man; but never has he seen anyone dance like this girl. When they stop she is scarcely out of breath, and he has only time to say, “Let me thank you.” For her next partner had already claimed her, when she turned back and mischievously remarked, “And you, you dance extremely well—for an Englishman.”