“Well, to me the rubbish, as you call it, seems much like the rest. I am sure these people were ladies and gentlemen.”
“Very likely,” he said, lifting his eyebrows; “but you may see at a glance that they have not the air of society. Here again, look yourself. You can see that these are constituents.”
To the horror of St. Cloud, the advancing constituents made straight for his partner.
“Mary, my dear!” exclaimed the lady, “where have you been? We have lost you ever since the last dance.”
“I have been standing here, mamma,” she said; and then, slipping from her late partner's arm, she made a demure little bow, and passed into the ball-room with her father and mother.
St. Cloud bit his lip, and swore at himself under his breath as he looked after them. “What an infernal idiot I must have been not to know that her people would be sure to turn out something of that sort!” thought he. “By Jove, I'll go after them, and set myself right before the little minx has time to think it over!” He took a step or two towards the ball-room, but then thought better of it, or his courage failed him. At any rate, he turned round again, and sought the refreshment-room, where he joined a knot of young gentlemen indulging in delicate little raised pies and salads, and liberal potations at iced claret or champagne cup. Amongst them was the guardsman who had introduced him to Mary, and who received him, as he came up, with—
“Well, St. Cloud, I hope you are alive to your obligations to me.”
“For shunting your late partner on to me? Yes, quite.”
“You be hanged!” replied the guardsman; “you may pretend what you please now, but you wouldn't let me alone till I had introduced you.”
“Are you talking about the girl in white muslin with fern leaves in her hair?” asked another.