“Dora Johnston,” thought I, “do not be a simpleton. Do you consider yourself so much better than your fellow creatures that you hesitate at returning a civil answer to a civil remark—meant kindly, too—because you, forsooth, like the French gentleman who was entreated to save another gentleman from drowning—'should have been most happy, but have never been introduced.'—What, girl, is this your scorn of conventionality—your grand habit of thinking and judging for yourself—your noble independence of all the follies of society? Fie! fie!”
To punish myself for my cowardice, I determined to turn round and look at the gentleman.
The punishment was not severe. He had a good face, brown and dark: a thin, spare, wiry figure, an air somewhat formal. His eyes were grave, yet not without a lurking spirit of humour, which seemed to have clearly penetrated, and been rather amused by, my foolish embarrassment and ridiculous indecision. This vexed me for the moment: then I smiled—we both smiled: and began to talk.
Of course, it would have been different had he been a young man; but he was not. I should think he was nearly forty.
At this moment Mrs. Granton came up, with her usual pleased look when she thinks other people are pleased with one another, and said in that friendly manner that makes everybody else feel friendly together also:—
“A partner, I see. That's right, Miss Dora. You shall have a quadrille in a minute, Doctor.”
Doctor! I felt relieved. He might have been worse—perhaps, from his beard, even a camp officer.
“Our friend takes things too much for granted,” he said, smiling. “I believe I must introduce myself. My name is Urquhart.”
“Doctor Urquhart?”
“Yes.”