He told me this was the worst ball for company there had been the whole season; and, with a wicked laugh that was too significant to be misunderstood, said, “And, as you have been to no other, perhaps you will give this for a specimen of a Bath ball!”
He told me he had very lately met with Hannah More, and then mentioned Mrs. Montagu and Mrs. Carter, whence he took occasion to say most high and fine things of the ladies of the present age,—their writings, and talents; and I soon found he had no small reverence for us blue-stockings.
About this time Charlotte,[127] who had confessedly dressed herself for dancing, but whose pretty face had by some means been overlooked, drawled towards us, and asked me why I would not dance?
“I never intended it,” said I, “but I hoped to have seen you.”
“No,” said she, yawning, “no more shall I,—I don't choose.”
“Don't you?” said Captain Bouchier, dryly, “why not?
“Why, because I don't like it.”
“O fie!” cried he; “consider how cruel that is.”
“I must consider myself,” said she, pertly; “for I don't choose to heat myself this hot weather.”
Just then a young man came forward, and requested her hand. She coloured, looked excessively silly, and walked off with him to join the dancers. When, between the dances, she came our way, he plagued her, a la Sir Clement.[128]