As for the ladies, Elizabeth, on removing her cloak, was dismayed to find that her fresh white muslin gown had more than one spot of mud on it, and it took ten minutes of diligent rubbing, washing, and pressing to get it out. She realized that she must have got it from the boots of the man who stood behind her, whose dark and striking face had fixed her attention at first and in whose neighborhood she had felt strangely influenced. And then the loss of her little pearl heart—But the Marine Band was playing loudly a rhythmic waltz, there were partners at the door waiting for her. She had two desirable men, both strangers, whom she might consider her property for that evening. She was young and beautiful, and in a little while all of her unpleasant sensations passed away. She found herself whirling around the room in Darrell’s arms. For a wonder, although an Englishman, he knew how to dance, and Elizabeth was intensely susceptible to rhythm and music. She felt when she began to waltz with Darrell, as if she would like to waltz forever with him. He was so strong, so supple, so graceful,—so susceptible, like herself, to that charm of dance music in which two people dancing together are conscious of that sensuous counterpart of real love which makes a man and a woman feel as if they constituted one being with a single heart and a single soul.
Darrell realized the first moment that he held Elizabeth in his arms and floated with her to the languorous waltz music, that he had never really been in love at all before; but, as he frankly confessed to himself, it was all up with him now. He knew not who or what she was, but it could make but little difference to him. He loved her and he knew it. He would have liked not to leave her side once during the evening, and in fact he was near her most of the time and danced with her six times.
Pelham, on the contrary, only sat out a single dance with her, as he was not a dancing man. He too felt a charm about her which he had never known in any other woman. Sitting out dances with young ladies had been a species of torment to him, but not so this time. He thought the charm that Elizabeth exercised over him was that she was the first of all unmarried English-speaking women that he had known who was perfectly and entirely at her ease with an unmarried man. She assumed an attitude openly and yet most delicately flattering towards him. He had known Englishwomen of fascination who were entirely at ease with men, but never flattering; and he had known other women who were very flattering to men, but never at ease with them. Here was a woman who treated him with the frankness she would have shown towards a younger brother, with the confidence she would have shown a respected elder brother, and with the deference she would have shown the greatest Duke in England. Pelham rightly judged that here he had met the true American type. A woman with an ancestry of gentle people, dating back two or three hundred years, and developed in a country where respect for women is so insisted upon as to be professed by those who neither believe in it nor practise it,—as such Elizabeth was to him the most interesting woman he had ever met. He was himself a reading man, and Elizabeth Brandon at twenty had read only a few books, but these were the English classics and they had given her the capacity to talk to a reading man like Pelham. He foresaw that at thirty Elizabeth would have read a great many books, and with the untrammelled association with men of all ages and in the free American atmosphere, her mind, naturally good, would have developed admirably.
As Pelham and Elizabeth sat at the foot of the stairs, a cabinet officer passed them slowly, as they sat under a bower of great palms, with the throbbing music far enough away not to interrupt their talk; and Elizabeth spoke to the cabinet officer. He was an elderly man from the West, manly and even gentlemanly, though not polished. Pelham noticed with what ease Elizabeth spoke to this type of man, the smiling, tactful answers she gave to his pleasant but rather blunt questions. She introduced Pelham promptly to him, accompanying the introduction with a request that he would be very nice to Captain Pelham while he was in Washington; and when the cabinet officer asked her what she wanted him to do for Captain Pelham, she replied promptly:—
“Send him a card to the club.”
Pelham was aghast at the boldness of this, and tried to imagine the daughter of a half-pay officer in England asking a cabinet minister to send a card to White’s and Brooke’s to a chance acquaintance she had just picked up.
Elizabeth continued placidly: “Of course I could get a card through papa. He does not belong to the club,—it is too expensive,—but he knows a great many men in the club. You know he can’t afford anything except me; and there are plenty of other men who would send Captain Pelham a card if I asked them, but you happen to be the biggest man I know and that is why I am asking you.”
At which the cabinet officer, laughing, said, “Will you be kind enough, Captain Pelham, to give me the name of your hotel?—and I will have a card sent to you to-morrow morning.”
“And he has a cousin, Captain Darrell,” added Elizabeth, promptly, “and he must have a card, too.”
“Certainly,” replied the cabinet officer, taking out his note-book and writing down the two names. “His brothers, cousins, and his uncles and all his relations, if you like,” and after taking the names down the cabinet officer walked away, laughing. This was an experience that Pelham thought his comrades would doubt when he told it at the mess-table of the 178th Foot.