The dancers all know each other. If not, introductions are easily obtained, and there is no dread about making new acquaintances: since there is no danger in doing so.
Inside the room is an atmosphere you can breathe without thought of being stifled; outside a supper you can eat, and wines you may drink without fear of being poisoned—adjuncts rarely found near the shrines of Terpsichore.
Maynard, though still a stranger to most of Sir George’s guests, was made acquainted with as many of them as chanced in his way. Those lately arrived had also read the fashionable journal, or heard of its comments on the new romance soon to be sent them by “Mudie.” And there is no circle in which genius meets with greater admiration than in that of the English aristocracy—especially when supposed to have been discovered in one of their own class.
Somewhat to his surprise, Maynard found himself the hero of the hour. He could not help feeling gratified by complimentary speeches that came from titled lips—many of them the noblest in the land. It was enough to make him contented. He might have reflected, how foolish he had been in embracing a political faith at variance with that of all around him, and so long separating him from their pleasant companionship.
In the face of success in a far different field, this seemed for the time forgotten by them.
And by him, too: though without any intention of ever forsaking those republican principles he had adopted for his creed. His political leanings were not alone of choice, but conviction. He could not have changed them, if he would.
But there was no need to intrude them in that social circle; and, as he stood listening to praise from pretty lips, he felt contented—even to happiness.
That happiness reached its highest point, as he heard half-whispered in his ear the congratulatory speech: “I’m so glad of your success?”
It came from a young girl with whom he was dancing in the Lancers, and who, for the first time during the night, had become his partner. It was Blanche Vernon.
“I fear you are flattering me?” was his reply. “At all events, the reviewer has done so. The journal from which you’ve drawn your deduction is noted for its generosity to young authors—an exception to the general rule. It is to that I am indebted for what you, Miss Vernon, are pleased to term success. It is only the enthusiasm of my reviewer; perhaps interested in scenes that may be novel to him. Those described in my romance are of a land not much known, and still less written about.”