“I thought that our party was sufficiently represented,” he answered, lamely, nodding towards Jeremy and his sister. “Why are you not dancing?”
“Because nobody asked me,” she said, sharply; “and besides, I was waiting for you.”
“Jeremy,” said Ernest, “here is Florence says that you didn’t ask her to dance.”
“Don’t talk humbug, Ernest; you know I don’t dance.”
“No, indeed,” put in Dorothy, “it is easy to see that; I never saw anybody look so miserable as you do.”
“Or so big,” said Florence, consolingly.
Jeremy shrank back into his corner and tried to look smaller. His sister was right, a dance was untold misery to him. The quadrille had ceased by now, and presently the band struck up a waltz, which Ernest danced with Florence. They both waltzed well, and Ernest kept going as much as possible, perhaps in order to give no opportunity for conversation. At any rate no allusion was made to the events of the previous evening.
“Where are your aunt and sister, Florence?” he asked, as he led her back to her seat.
“They are coming presently,” she answered, shortly.
The next dance was a galop, and this he danced with Dorothy, whose slim figure looked, in the white muslin dress she wore, more like that of a child than a grown woman. But child or woman, her general appearance was singularly pleasing and attractive. Ernest thought that he had never seen the quaint, puckered little face, with the two steady blue eyes in it, look so attractive. Not that it was pretty—it was not, but it was a face with a great deal of thought in it, and moreover it was a face through which the goodness of its owner seemed to shine like the light through a lamp.