It was during the ballet that the unfortunate incident occurred. Absorbed in the first display of dancing she had seen, Hero sat leaning a little forward in the box, her eyes taking in every detail of what was going on behind the footlights. They did not fail to mark the pronounced attention being paid to her box by a neat little dancer with a roguish twinkle in her eyes, and a dimple that peeped beside her inviting mouth. Forgetting her surroundings, and Sherry’s stern reminders to her to guard her unwary tongue, she turned impulsively towards him, and said in the most innocent way across Mr Ringwood: “Oh, Sherry, is that your opera dancer?”
The instant the words had left her lips she could have bitten her tongue out, for Sherry not only flushed scarlet, but shot her such a kindling look as made her quake in her little satin sandals. A stifled giggle from Mrs Hoby, who put her fan to hide her face, made matters worse.
It was left to Mr Ringwood to come to the rescue. He saw his friend’s discomfiture, the bride’s dismayed expression, and he rose nobly to the occasion. “No,” he said, with beautiful simplicity. “Sherry don’t admire her dancing as much as the dark one’s, on the right.”
The Viscount was visibly lost in wonder at such ready address in one whom he had not been used to think quick-witted. Hero, still covered in confusion, slid a grateful hand into one of Mr Ringwood’s and clutched it eloquently, saying in a subdued tone: “Yes, that is what I meant, Gil!”
During the interval, when they repaired to the saloon for refreshments, the Viscount bore Mrs Hoby off without so much as glancing at his wife. Mr Ringwood procured her a glass of lemonade, and would have struggled to make a polite conversation had she not interrupted him, saying with the devastating candour which characterized her: “Gil, I don’t know how I came to say it! He is very angry with me, isn’t he?”
“No need to refine too much upon it,” said Mr Ringwood kindly. “Dare say he’ll have forgotten about it by the end of the evening. Never one to take a miff, Sherry!”
“I forgot that we were not alone,” said Hero unhappily. “My wretched tongue! If only my cousin had not been present!”
“Yes, but, Kitten!” expostulated Mr Ringwood, “you ought not to know anything about Sherry’s — well, what I mean is — ”
“I know,” said Hero. “Bit of muslin.”
Mr Ringwood choked over his lemonade. “No, I don’t! No, really, Kitten, you must not say such things!”