“Hot, indeed,” I rejoined, giving sigh for sigh; “they don’t catch me dancing again in a red coat.”
If working up the dance was fatiguing, the going down it was still more so. My partner, a practised hand, skipped about without the smallest signs of fatigue, whilst I, reeking from every pore, was dragged up and down and whirled round and about till my head spun, and I thought I should have verily gone into a fit, or sunk from sheer exhaustion on the floor. I did, however, contrive to hold out till we finished the dance, five-and-twenty couples at least, when, with a staggering bow, I tendered my arm and led my partner to her seat.
“Are you fond of dancing?” said she, with the coolest assurance.
“A little of it,” said I, with a sigh, “when in practice, the set not too long, and the weather not too hot.”
A gentleman, chained, ringed, and be-broached, stout and bronzed, now came up, and engaged my partner for the next dance, chatted for some time with the air of an old acquaintance, gave a “bye-bye” sort of a nod, and passed on.
“Do you know Captain Trinkum?”
“No,” said I; “what does he belong to?”
“To the Rustomjee Bomanjee,” said she.
“The Rustomjee Bomanjee,” I rejoined; “pray what regiment is that? some irregular corps, I suppose.”
This remark of mine set her off in a violent fit of laughter, of which (rather confused) I begged to know the cause.