In a recess about the middle of the room the orchestra were tuning up for another waltz; at one end the more important families were assembling; at the other, the lesser. Need I say that we joined the former group?
In English country dances it usually is the custom to have programmes on which you write the names of your partners for the evening. I now looked round to secure one particular partner, but she was not to be seen. The waltz had begun; I scanned the dancers. There was Shafthead tearing round with Miss Horley, his athletic figure moving well, his good features lit by a smile he could assume most agreeably when on his best behavior. There was the stout Sir Henry revolving with the more deliberate pomp of sixty summers. But where were the bright eyes? Suddenly I spied the skirt of a light-blue dress through the opening of a doorway. I rushed for it, and there, out in the passage, was the misogamist Lumme evidently entreating Miss Trevor-Hudson for more dances than she was willing to surrender. For her sake this must be stopped.
“I have come to make a modest request,” I said. “Will you give me a dance—or possibly two?”
With the sweetest air she took her programme from the disconcerted, and I do not think very amiable, Teddy, and handed it to me.
“I have taken three, seven, and fourteen,” I said, giving it back to her.
“Fourteen is mine,” cried Teddy.
“Not now, I said, smiling.
“I had booked it,” said he.
“Your name was not there,” I replied. “And now, Miss Hudson, if you are not dancing this dance will you finish it with me?”
She took my arm, and the baffled despiser of women was left in the passage.