“I cannot find language, my dear madame, to express my gratitude for the distinguished honor you confer upon me.”
“Partners for a quadrille,” rang through the saloon as the band struck up a lively tune. George III., the Duke of Wellington and Napoleon all made a dash toward the queen at once, each one anxious to secure her as a partner, but with a low bow and a sweet smile she turned to Ivanhoe, took his arm, and was soon gliding through the dance. The British King appeared to take his discomfiture rather hard, while Wellington looked somewhat chop-fallen; but Napoleon proposed that their sorrow should all be drowned in a bowl of punch, which was agreed to, and the trio marched to the bar to commence the drowning process.
“Devilish provoking,” muttered George III.
“What’s provoking?” says Wellington.
“That mysterious piece of humanity styling herself queen of Scots. I shall always hate masquerade balls after this. I don’t think they are respectable at all.”
“Come, come, your royal highness, you should not surrender at the first repulse; Ivanhoe has only gained a temporary triumph, and if you will come to the charge again with a brave heart, you may yet compel victory to perch on your banner.”
“Ingomar had a monopoly until Ivanhoe leaped into the arena and carried off the prize, and I advise you to show a bold front. Strategy won’t win in battles of love. If you expect to win, don’t attempt to make a flank movement, but come boldly up to the front. Remember that ‘faint heart never won fair lady.’”
“I don’t want to win a fair lady, or any other kind of lady, until I know who she is.”
“I guess you will find that out to-morrow, for she is going to New Orleans.”
“True, but I learn that she means to make the entire trip incog.”