Lord Bromford, one of the earliest arrivals, failed, owing to Mr. Rivenhall’s sense of duty, to secure Sophy’s hand for the first dance, and as a waltz followed the country dance it was some time before he was able to stand up with her. While waltzing was in progress he stood watching the performers, and in due course, gravitated to Miss Wraxton’s side, and entertained her with an exposition of his views on the waltz. With these she was to some extent in sympathy, but she expressed herself more moderately, saying that while she herself would not care to waltz, the dance could not be altogether frowned on now that it had been sanctioned at Almack’s.
“I did not see it danced at Government House,” said Lord Bromford.
Miss Wraxton, who was fond of reading books of travels, said, “Jamaica! How much I envy you, sir, your sojourn in that interesting island! I am sure it must be one of the most romantic places imaginable.”
Lord Bromford, whose youth had never been charmed by tales of the Spanish Main, replied that it had much to recommend it and went on to describe the properties of its medicinal springs and the great variety of marbles to be found in the mountains, all of which Miss Wraxton listened to with interest, telling Mr. Rivenhall later that she thought his lordship had a well-informed mind.
It was halfway through the evening when Sophy, breathless from an energetic waltz with Mr. Wychbold, was standing at the side of the room, fanning herself, and watching the couples still circling round the floor while her partner went to procure a glass of iced lemonade for her, was suddenly accosted by a pleasant-looking gentleman, who came up to her and said with a frank smile, “My friend, Major Quinton, promised that he would present me to the Grand Sophy, but the wretched fellow goes from one set to the next, and never spares me a thought! How do you do, Miss Stanton-Lacy? You will forgive my informality, won’t you? It is true that I have no business here, for I was not invited, but Charles assures me that had I not been believed to be still laid upon a bed of sickness I must have received a card.” She looked at him in that frank way of hers, summing him up. She liked what she saw. He was a man in the early thirties, not precisely handsome, but with a pleasing countenance redeemed from the commonplace by a pair of humorous gray eyes. He was above the medium height, and had a good pair of shoulders, and an excellent leg for a riding boot.
“It is certainly too bad of Major Quinton,” Sophy said smilingly. “But you know what a rattlepate he is! Ought we to have sent you a card? You must forgive us! I hope your illness was not of a serious nature?”
“Alas, merely painful and humiliating!” he replied. “Would you believe that a man of my age could fall a victim to so childish a complaint, ma’am? Mumps!”
Sophy dropped her fan, exclaiming: “ What did you say? Mumps?”
“Mumps,” he repeated, picking up the fan, and giving it back to her. “I do not wonder at your astonishment!”
“Then you,” said Sophy, “are Lord Charlbury.”