Captain Chancellor made his way quickly to where the two girls were standing.
“Our dance, I believe, Miss Chancellor?” he said to his cousin, then, somewhat to Roma’s surprise—his late conduct had not prepared her to be thus honoured—he turned towards her.
“Will you keep number ten for me, Roma,” he said; “I shall count upon it, remember!” and before, in the moment’s hurry, she had time to make any excuse, or even to decide that it would be well to do so, he had left her, and in another minute was whirling round the room, with the substantial Adelaide in his arms.
Miss Eyrecourt felt a little uneasy. Something in Beauchamp’s manner had struck her as peculiar: then, too, number ten was—as she knew by the arrangement of the card—the last dance before supper; evidently he had chosen it on purpose. There was no help for it, however; she must trust to her tact to steer clear of anything undesirable, but she almost wished she had pleaded illness or some excuse, and remained at home.
What a pity it all was! Long ago in the old comfortable days, how she had enjoyed dancing with Beauchamp, especially at these Winsley balls, where they knew everybody, and it was sociable and friendly, and people were not too fine to enjoy themselves. How nice it would be, thought Roma, if there was no such thing in the world as falling in love, real or imaginary.
Could it be true, as Beauchamp had so often told her, when he was vexed, that she was different from the rest of young ladyhood, cold, and self-contained and unwomanly? If so, was it not a pity she had not taken the best that came in her way, with out waiting in a vague belief that something better might possibly be yet to come? Portionless though she was, she had refused two or three very fair proposals before now, refused them for no reason except the little-sympathised-in one that she “did not care for” the men who had made them to her. But now, at four-and-twenty, there were times when she questioned the wisdom of her decisions, when she doubted if, after all, it was in her to care for any real flesh-and-blood lover, as long ago in the romantic girlish days it had seemed to her she could. She might have been fairly happy with Sir Philip Bartlemore for instance, buried in politics over head and ears though he was. Lady Bartlemore seemed comfortable and content, and every one spoke of her as fortunate in her married life; or with that undoubtedly disinterested and truly uninteresting Mr Fawcett, the Rector of Ferrivale, towards whom for some time Roma had vainly tried to coax into existence a warmer sentiment than respect—she would have gone on respecting him till now, she felt quite sure, and she would have had a home and ties of her own, whereas now she was of no particular use to any one, and the cause of disunion and trouble among her nearest friends. Had she made a mistake in not acting up to the practical, worldly-wise philosophy she always professed to believe in? There was no saying, and little use now in trying to decide; so Roma turned her attention to the present, danced as much as she felt inclined, laughed and talked with such of her partners as were worth the trouble, and made fun to herself of the others, till nine dances had come to an end, and she was startled by Beauchamp’s voice beside her claiming her for the tenth.
“I am glad it is a waltz,” she said cordially, judging that a return to the old easy terms would be her best temporary policy. “It is ages since we have had one together, and we understood each other’s paces so well. I have not been very lucky to-night; so far as dancing goes, that is to say. My partners have belonged more to the order of ‘those that talk.’ How have you been getting on?”
“I! oh, I don’t know. Well enough,” replied Captain Chancellor somewhat absently. “Lady Exyton dances well to look at, but she’s rather too light and too small for me. Blanche Fretville again is a thought too big, and she bounces rather.”
“You are as difficult to please as ever, I see,” remarked Roma, rashly.
Beauchamp looked at her: his eyes and the consciousness of the mistake she had made, caused her colour to deepen. Her vexation with herself increased.