I decline an overture on the part of my first friend to trip a measure with me—we have already tripped several—and, by the surprise and slight mortification which I read on his face as he turns away, I think I must have done it with some abruptness.
I decline everybody. I stand in the door-way, whence I can command both the ballroom and the passages. They are not on the stairs.
A moment ago Mr. Parker came up to me, and told me in his gay, loud voice how much he would like to have a valse with me, but that his clothes are so tight, he really dare not. Then he disappears among the throng, with an uncomfortable sidelong movement, which endeavors to shield the incompleteness of his back view.
I am still smiling at his dilemma, when another voice sounds in my ears.
"You are not dancing?"
It is Musgrave. He has had the vanity to take off his absurd costume, and to wash the powder from his hair, and the rouge from his cheeks. He stands before me now, cool, pale, and civilized, in the faultless quietness of his evening dress.
"No," reply I, shortly, "I am not!"
"Will you dance with me?"
I am not looking at him; indeed, I never look at him now, if I can help; but I hear a sort of hesitating defiance in his tone.
"No, thank you"—(still more shortly)—"I might have danced, if I had liked: it is not for want of asking"—(with a little childish vanity)—"but I do not wish."