“He cannot dance,” she remarked.
“I hope you will find me no worse,” said loyal Harry.
“Oh no,” she replied, with a little laugh, “I am sure I shall not.”
“It is strange that I have never seen you before,” he said, “for you live in Hereford, don’t you? I have often heard your aunt’s name.”
“I lost my parents some time ago, and I have lately come to live with her. I am only just out of mourning.” And she looked down at her forget-me-not sprinkled dress.
He did not quite know what to say, but, as the next dance was beginning, he offered her his arm with a little bow.
Isoline Ridgeway danced divinely, and Harry felt as though he were flying into the seventh heaven—wherever that problematical spot may be—flying and sailing with the mouse-coloured head near his shoulder. The valse had been so lately introduced into England that, in the country, people were only beginning to take it up, and very few could dance it well, so these two, with their perfect accord and grace of motion, were remarked by many.
“Who is that pretty girl dancing with my boy?” asked Harry’s father of a neighbour. “They seem to be enjoying themselves.”
The old gentleman addressed adjusted his spectacles.
“That is Miss Ridgeway’s niece,” he replied.