“It was so kind of you to come, Madam O’Neill,” he said, speaking through tightly closed teeth in a small, deprecating voice; “and the weather so unpleasant, too; yes, indeed! But we’ve quite a nice little number of friends dancing in there already, and we’re expecting another carful of partners for the young ladies”—with a bow to Connie and me—“from the bank in Moycullen.”
“That will be delightful!” said Connie, with a brilliant smile, giving me at the same time an expressive pinch.
She was looking very pretty, and was in the highest spirits, consequent, as I soon found, on an advanced flirtation with a Captain Forster, then staying at Clashmore. Pending his arrival, however, she condescended to dance with Mr. Jimmy Barrett, who, his usual red-hot appearance accentuated by the fact that he was wearing the hunt uniform, had waylaid us in the hall, and he now carried Connie off, while I followed the Madam and Mr. Jackson-Croly into the drawing-room. There we were received by Mrs. Jackson-Croly, imposingly attired in ruby silk and white lace. Unlike her obsequious spouse, Madam O’Neill’s diamonds and acknowledged social standing had no over-aweing effect upon her, and in her greeting to us she abated no whit of her usual magnificence of manner.
“’Twas too bad Miss O’Neill was from home and couldn’t come,” she observed condescendingly. “I have lots of gentlemen looking for partners—quite an ‘embrasse de richesses.’ There were so many asking for invitations, and I didn’t like refusing. You must let me present some of them to you, Miss Sarsfield.”
The two rooms in which the dancing was going on were brightened by the red coats of several members of the Moycullen Hunt, and one of these was presently captured by Mrs. Croly and introduced to me. While I was putting his name down for a dance, the rest of our party were ushered in by Mr. Jackson-Croly.
“The Clashmore gentlemen, Louisa, my dear,” he announced, with chastened pride.
The O’Neill soon made his way to me.
“Well, Miss Sarsfield, what are we to have? I see the next is a polka. I can’t manage these new-fashioned waltzes, but I flatter myself I can dance a polka.”
With inward trepidation I consented, and was occupied with the usual difficulty of refastening my pencil to my card, when card and all were quietly taken out of my hand.
“Now, Theo, how about those dances you promised me? I’m just going to put my name down for them”—scribbling away on my card as he spoke.