Oh, daring thought! Now shall he bring down the well-deserved plaudits of the lookers-on. He turns—one, two, three—it is a swing, a hop, not perhaps a ball-room performance, but at least a success. Eyes become concentrated. He essays it again, and again victory crowns his effort. Yet a third time he makes the attempt—alas I that fatal three. Is it that his heel catches his toe, or his toe catches his heel? The result at least is the same: over he goes; disgrace is on him; with a crash he and the asphalt meet.
"It is monotonous, I think," breathes Sir Mark in my ear, in a deprecating tone, and then looks past me at Bebe.
"It is fatiguing," murmurs Harriet, with a yawn. "James, if you don't get me a chair this instant, I shall faint."
"It is delicious," declare I, enthusiastically; "it is the nicest thing I ever saw. Oh! I wish I could skate."
"It makes one giddy," says Lady Blanche, affectedly "Do they never turn in this place?" Almost on her words a bell tinkles somewhere in the distance, and as if by magic they all swerve round and move the contrary way—all, that is, except the tyros, who come heavily, and without a moment's warning, to their knees.
And now the band strikes up, and the last waltz comes lingeringly to our ears. Insensibly the musical portion of the community on wheels falls into a gentle winging motion and undulate to the liquid strains of the tender "Manolo."
"This is better," says Lady Handcock, sinking into the chair for which her faithful James had just done battle.
Bebe and Thornton, hand in hand, skim past us.
"Oh! I must, I will learn," I cry, excitedly. "I never saw anything I liked so much. Sir Mark, do get me a pair of skates and let me try. It looks quite simple. Oh, if Billy were but here!"
Sir Mark goes to obey my command, and I stand by Harriet's chair, too interested for conversation. How they fly along! the women with more grace in their movements, the men with more science. Here is the fatal corner turn; the numbers are increasing; whirr, crash, down they come, four together, causing an indescribable scene of confusion. Two from the outside circle rush in to succor their fallen darlings. It is a panic—a melee. Yet stay; after all it is nothing; they are up again, flushed but undaunted: it is all the fortune of war. Vogue la galere.