“How charmingly you wait on me,” she said, half laughing.
“I belong to the old school which put lovely women on a gilded pedestal and worshipped them. Besides, I have to take pains to make you forget my age.”
“How can you be so absurd!” she cried. “I think you’re the youngest man I’ve ever known.”
He was delighted, for he saw that Gwendolen meant precisely what she said.
“Ah, why don’t we live in the eighteenth century so that I might fall on my knee and kiss your hand in gratitude for that pretty speech!”
The band struck up again, and the Canon, offering his arm, led her back to the ball-room. She was claimed by a young guardsman; and as she swung into the throng the Canon could not help feeling that neither in appearance, height, nor gallantry, had he anything to fear from the comparison.
“Upon my soul, I can’t make out why I don’t come to balls oftener,” he murmured. “I had no idea they were so amusing.”
Lionel was standing just in front of him, and he slapped him on the back.
“Well, my boy, are you enjoying yourself? I hope you bear me no malice because I robbed you of your partner.”
“Not at all. I’m not really very fond of dancing.”