After a very satisfactory fast and unaffectedly performed galop, the susceptible Colonel joined them at the refreshment table, accompanied by a young lady with a wild-rose complexion and great dark eyes, who had been evidently dancing at a pace which had caused that mysterious portion of her chevelure known (I am informed) as ‘back hair’ to fall in glossy abundance over her fair shoulders.
‘Splendid floor, Bessy,’ he said to his niece. ‘Capital music—partner beyond all praise!’ (Here the young lady looked up with smiling reproach.) ‘Fact! haven’t had such a dance since the last ball at Calcutta. There were two duels next day—about a young lady, of course’ (here the small damsel looked much concerned)—‘and poor O’Grady, who had heart complaint, but couldn’t control his feelings at a ball, died within the week.’
‘Oh, how dreadful!’ said the little maiden, with a sincere accent of distress. ‘But nobody dies after a ball here, or fights duels either, that I ever heard of. Why should they in India, Colonel Branksome?’
‘Can’t say,’ said the Colonel. ‘Let me give you a little champagne; heat of the climate, I suppose; too many soldiers, too few ladies.’
‘India must be a beautiful place, Colonel Branksome,’ observed the grave little damsel, looking out of her big eyes with an air of deliberate conviction.
‘Glorious, splendid; that is, most infernal hole—hot, dull, miserable—full of niggers. Hope I may never stay another year in it. Get my pension, I hope, when I get back and settle up with the remount agent. After that, if they ever catch Billy Branksome out of England again, they may make a Punkah-wallah of him.’
‘Good gracious, Colonel Branksome!’ said the matter-of-fact danseuse, who now looked as cool as if she had been walking a minuet. ‘I thought all soldiers were fond of India. Oh! there’s that dear old Captain de Bracy.’
‘Gad! so it is,’ said the Colonel. ‘Look at him, Bessy, strolling in, and bowing to every woman he knows, as if he was at a ball at the Tuileries. Gad! I did see him there last. And what do you think he was doing?—why, dancing in a set with two crowned heads and four princesses of the blood. He and Charles Standish made up the set; by gad!’
‘Oh, doesn’t he look like a nobleman?’ said the debutante enthusiastically, opening her innocent eyes and feasting on De Bracy’s middle-aged charms. ‘And oh, what lovely, wonderful studs!’
‘So you’re here, Master Billy, as usual?’ said the object of this highly favourable criticism. ‘Couldn’t keep away from a ball if your life depended upon it. Old enough to know better, ain’t he, Miss Maybell? Happy to see you all here to-night. Not afraid of the stumps and holes? I’m well enough, thanks, Miss Maybell; heard you were coming, and though I seldom go out now—I am here.’